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V 































“I Sort of Hate to Leave This Room,” Angela Began 







V 


MASQUES 

BY 

ELIZABETH HALL YATES / 

H 


Illustrated by 
RALPH P. COLEMAN 



> 


THE PENN PUBLISHING 
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA 

1923 

I A 




COPYRIGHT 
1923 BY 
THE PENN 
PUBLISHING 


COMPANY 



Masques 


Manufacturing 

Plant 

Camden, N. J. 



Made in the U. S. A, 


JUN 20 '23 


Cl A 7 0 5 88 4 


A 

w 

\ 


PROLOGUE 


PROLOGUE 


1 

Why is it that people seldom form intimate 
friendships after they become of age? The average 
youngster has at least two or three cronies to whom 
he divulges his most sacrosanct thoughts. But the 
soul secrets of any person between the ages of 
thirteen and eighteen aren’t vastly important or 
particularly interesting, anyway. One’s inner life 
at that period is so similar to the inner life of one’s 
associates. Perhaps that is why it’s so easy to talk 
about. Later, when character begins to develop 
more definitely and there is a difference between us 
and our friends that has shown itself already in 
our outer lives—then, instinctively, we try to con¬ 
ceal this difference. We want to be like everyone 
else. Deviation from the beaten path may mean 
criticism or scorn or pity, and we’re rather afraid 
of those things. So—on with the masque of con¬ 
vention, and don’t let anyone glimpse beneath! 

The Fahnstock family, it would seem, didn’t have 
anything to hide; New York boasts of a hundred 
families made in their pattern. The word “ boasts ” 
is significant. They were the sort of people that 
Middle Westerners picture in their minds’ eyes 
when the great metropolis is mentioned. 

9 


MASQUES 

A town house and one on Long Island; dinner at 
seven-thirty; a standing account with the best 
known theater ticket speculator; and seats at the 
opera on alternate Mondays. Mrs. Fahnstock at¬ 
tended Madame Butterfly once a year. It made her 
cry and she found it refreshing. But aside from 
that performance the seats remained, for the most 
part, vacant. As a family, the Fahnstocks were not 
musical enthusiasts. 

They sent their two children to the best school 
and college that could be found. The children 
lacked distinction as students, but were popular 
with the undergraduates. 

Mr. Fahnstock had an excellent rating in Brad- 
street and Dun, and he smoked Bussian cigars. He 
was what is oratorically known as a “ captain of 
finance.” He liked to read detective stories. 

For the Fahnstocks, you see, according to New 
York standards, were quite all right. Their names 
were in the papers whenever they went abroad, or 
"when some relative died, or every January when 
they gave their yearly reception. There was no 
scandal attached to them, and they were pleasant 
people to know. What if they had never heard of 
Puvis de Chavannes, or if they thought Max Beer- 
bohm was a Shakespearian actor? They gave de¬ 
lightful little dinners and their invitations were 
seldom refused. New York was proud of them. 

The Ilennys, on the other hand, were not so for¬ 
tunate. At least in Miss Vera Henny’s private 

10 


PROLOGUE 


opinion they were not. Siam, Ohio, was the seat 
of their estate, and that fact in itself was enough 
to cause the young lady of the house to shudder 
whenever she was asked about her home. 

She had been sent on to New York to the same 
school that Mildred Fahnstock was attending. Mr. 
and Mrs. Willis Henny wished Vera to have every 
advantage that it was possible for them to give her. 

But let it be said that the older Hennys didn’t in 
any way consider themselves unsuccessful. They 
had all the money that they could make use of; 
they were the leaders of their community; a kindly, 
contented, generous couple, they thanked the Lord 
for His good gifts and looked out upon their nar¬ 
row world with the naivete of two happy children. 
Education was the one thing they didn’t have, and 
they were all the more determined that Vera should 
make up for it. 

They failed to realize, however, that in sending 
her to a fashionable school in New York, they were 
at the same time giving Vera the opportunity to 
learn to despise the very things that they liked, 
that instead of mastering French and Latin she 
was, even so early in life, learning the art of mas¬ 
querading. 

So, during all of the long four years that she was 
away the Hennys kept her image in their minds. 
And now it was spring, and presently she was com¬ 
ing home again, this time to stay. They were in¬ 
genuously anxious for her arrival. 

11 


MASQUES 

The Days complete our triangle of families. 
Though one could hardly call old Mrs. Day and her 
granddaughter a “ family.” There had been more 
of them once; Mrs. Day had been the mother of five 
children. Then misfortune after misfortune had 
befallen the clan until there were only these two, 
herself, and Angela, left. Closing her Spartan 
eyes to the past, the old lady lived now in the 
present, in Angela’s, her granddaughter’s, present. 
And because she willed it with all the strength of 
her rugged mind, she was happy. She had made 
Angela happy. 

As far as lineage was concerned, the Days were 
perhaps the best endowed. There were all sorts of 
distinguished ancestors, and there were quaint old 
family legends that had been passed down from the 
Middle Ages. Not that it mattered to Angela. 
She had been carefully taught that gentleness 
springs only from the heart, and that a king’s son 
may be a cad, and a beggar, a hero. Her grand¬ 
mother had seen to it that these principles were 
understood. 

It had been rather against Mrs. Day’s better 
judgment that she had entered her granddaughter 
in The Shelborough School. Anything that had 
the name of being fashionable she usually avoided. 
But it happened that Mrs. Shelborough had been an 
old friend; Mrs. Day had been sorry for her, in the 
first place. Angela had gone to kindergarten at 
Shelborough and it hadn’t seemed to hurt her, so 

12 


PROLOGUE 


she had gone on and on until, now, with Vera 
Henny and Mildred Fahnstock, she was on the eve 
of her graduation. And still she didn’t seem any 
the worse for her finisliing-school education. Mrs. 
Day was relieved at the approaching release; she 
knew that no harm would be done after all. 

Three families, then, and from these families, 
three girls who represent their younger generation. 
Average American daughters of respectable people. 
All of them had tried smoking and didn’t like it; 
two of them were given to profanity at an early 
age, but had recovered; Vera had once drunk too 
much champagne punch at a wedding; and Mildred 
was certainly over-sentimental. They were, on the 
whole, a great deal like their elders. A bit more 
foolish, perhaps. They lacked experience. 

2 

Dr. Albert De Lancey Shelborough, principal 
and owner of The Shelborough School for Girls, 
3STew York City, sat in his office on a warm May 
morning with his helpmate and under-principal, 
Mrs. Albert De Lancey Shelborough. With his 
thick, neatly manicured fingers, he was going 
through the letter fde of this year’s graduating 
class. His broad brow was furrowed, and his 
mouth beneath the stiff gray mustache and beard 
was self-important. Even with his wife he never 
lost his schoolmaster manner. It was as much a 
part of him as his excellent gray toupee. One sus- 

13 


MASQUES 

pected that he did not discard either in the privacy 
of his own bedroom. 

His voice resounded with hearty satisfaction as 
he closed the file. “ Fourteen girls, my dear. The 
largest class we’ve graduated. And not a condition 
in the class.” 

Mrs. Shelborough glanced up from her desk, 
where she was writing with a squeaky pen. Her 
delicate hand paused waveringly above the paper, 
her shy, dark eyes were doubtful. 

“ Except for Mildred Fahnstock,” she said 
timidly. “Of course she was conditioned, but 
you-” 

“ Mildred Fahnstock graduates on her own 
merits,” the doctor retorted. “ True, she failed in 
mathematics, and if she were going to college I 
should have been obliged to condition her; But as 
it is, her excellent w T ork in aesthetic dancing nicely 
balances her failure in algebra. I dare say her 
dancing will be of more use to her in her future 
life. At any rate, her father wished her to be 
graduated. And, as you know, the Fahnstocks are 
charming people—very wealthy. Oh, yes indeed— 
very wealthy.” 

Mrs. Shelborough returned to her writing. Thirty 
years of weak protest, her own idealism against her 
husband’s shrewd materialism, had left its mark 
upon her gentle ineffectual features. 

“ I’m sorry,” she sighed, “ sorry to see those girls 
go. They never come back to visit us between the 

14 



PROLOGUE 


five-yearly reunions. We just lose them. I don’t 
always mind so much, but—Mildred, and Vera, and 
Angela-” 

She was interrupted by a snort from her hus¬ 
band. 

“ I wouldn’t waste my affection on any of them, 
my dear. Mildred is a nice little thing, but she 
has no brains. Vera is handsome enough, but abso¬ 
lutely without emotion of any sort. And Angela 
—well, she’s very pleasant and agreeable—and her 
grandmother is always prompt with her tuition— 
that’s an advantage. But it doesn’t pay to become 
too intimate with the girls. Once we’re through 
with them, we don’t want them hanging about. It 
doesn’t pay, my dear. I’ve told you that before.” 

“ No, Bert. But I --” 

The thought died, even as it was born, and once 
again she recommenced her writing. The office, 
offensive in its self-conscious good taste and studied 
simplicity, like a smug old maid, was quiet except 
for the doleful pen which scratched irregularly. 

Presently Dr. Shelborough rose and walked 
across the room, his hands clasped behind his back, 
his feet meeting the floor at each step squarely and 
firmly. He halted before a framed rotogravure of 
the Acropolis. It was his fond fancy that he de¬ 
rived a certain inspiration from that representation 
of ancient perfection. He had worn a path in the 
Wilton rug between the wall on which it hung, and 
his own desk chair. 


15 




MASQUES 

To-morrow was another Commencement Day. 
Which meant, for him, another speech to the gradu¬ 
ating class, another admonitory injunction em¬ 
bellished by flowery phrases and a quivering voice. 

“ We send you forth into a world of struggle and 
disappointments. . . (Sniff.) “ To face Life 

clear-eyed and valiant . . . without our loving 

guidance and protection. . . .” (Chokingly.) 

“ Crusaders against a vicious humanity . . . 

splendid representatives of the school and its ideals 
. . . so many lilies of the field . . . re¬ 
main pure and unspotted . . . our blessings. 
. . (And his handkerchief raised to his eyes 

at the end of the speech, with just the right amount 
of shame and deprecation for the emotion he was 
displaying.) 

Thirty years of routine had made the doctor as 
incapable of change or originality as the sun. He 
still went through the ceremony of pretending to 
himself that his beloved Parthenon animated his 
mind, causing him to cull new ideas from year to 
year. As a matter of fact, his speeches were prac¬ 
tically identical. Parents, hearing them for the 
first time, wept over them, while their daughters, 
who knew each sentence by heart, passed notes and 
played surreptitious games of “hang-man” and 
“ boxes.” 

A splendid, accurate machine, a trifle in need of 
oiling, a trifle worn, but still powerful. He had 
built up his business from a beginning of only six 

16 


PROLOGUE 


pupils to what was considered by many now to be 
the best private school in the city. 

His wife was possibly his greatest asset. People 
often wondered how she had ever happened to 
marry him. Her maiden name was Katherine Ful¬ 
ler, and she came of old New York stock. An at¬ 
tractive, quiet young girl, at the age of eighteen 
she had been left an orphan. Albert Shelborough, 
entering her life just then, had seen the advantages 
of annexing a woman in her position, and his sym¬ 
pathy in her bereavement was magnificent. In her 
loneliness, she fell quite desperately in love with 
him, and she became his wife within a year. 

Naturally enough, Miss Fuller’s friends, the 
Turners, had sent their children to her husband’s 
school. And then the Andrews had come on ac¬ 
count of the Turners, and the Greenes because of 
the Andrews, and so the school had grown to its 
present size of nearly two hundred girls. 

“ S-H-E-L-B-O-R-O-U-G-H ! S-H-E-L-BO-R-O-U-G-H! 

Nineteen-Sixteen ! Nineteen-Sixteen ! Nine- 
teen-Sixteen ! ” 

Fourteen happy voices floated down the marble 
staircase outside the office. One o’clock, the last 
day of school, the graduating class giving its fare¬ 
well cheer. 

Dr. Shelborough frowned at the interruption of 
his thoughts. Then his face relaxed. Nineteen- 
sixteen . . • that class had meant much to his 

17 


MASQUES 

success. One thousand times fourteen, plus the ex¬ 
tra fees for music and gymnasium, and with the ad¬ 
ditional profit on books and stationery—really not 
bad at all. 

His wife’s writing had ceased, and he swung 
about. She had risen and was going toward the 
door. 

“ I thought I 7 d run up-stairs a moment, Bert,” 
she explained with a tremulous lift of her sparse 
eyebrows. “ It’s the last opportunity I’ll have. 
And I'd like to see Mildred and Vera and Angela 
before they-” 

He dismissed her with an impatient w T ave of his 
wide hand. Her sentimentality was one of her 
most annoying traits. He heard her quick, nervous 
step click on the stone stairs as she ascended, then 
the eager cry of greeting when she entered the room 
above. 

Frowning, he turned back to the lonely grandeur 
of his Acropolis for inspiration. 

o 

O 

Mildred and Vera and Angela; the three leaders 
of the class, thrust into incongruous intimacy be¬ 
cause of their mutual prominence. 

Mildred Fahnstock—soft, appealing, with baby 
skin and ash-blonde hair that curled at the nape of 
the neck; an upper lip that protruded innocently. 
She liked to think of herself as “ a man’s woman.” 
She was, indeed, inclined to be rather bored when 

18 



PROLOGUE 


in the exclusive society of her own sex. Men—and 
she called any male above the age of sixteen a 
“ man ”—had a delightful and peculiar interest for 
her. Milly ranked as the best dancer in the school, 
the worst dirt, the most popular with the under 
classes. 

Vera Henny; the beauty of the class as well as its 
athlete. A splendid creature of superb physique, a 
handsome, expressionless face. Vera was an ex¬ 
cellent student. She had the gift of a good memory, 
and she was clever enough to discover what sort of 
answers to questions her various teachers required. 
She kept a note-book containing favorite phrases 
used by members of the faculty and her examina¬ 
tion papers were filled with them. She was the 
president of her class, the star of school amateur 
theatricals. Her utter lack of a sense of humor 
was remarkable. 

And Angela Day. Pale, irregular features that 
lit when she laughed. Hands with slim, straight 
fingers; frank eyes, a mass of hair the color of a 
robin’s breast. A girl with a never waning, unso¬ 
phisticated joy in living, and a supreme impatience 
with the commonplace stupidities of peox>le like Dr. 
Shelborough. A bit of a prude. The author of the 
class play, Telemachus, and editor of the school 
paper. 

“ S-H-E-L-B-O-R-O-U-G-H! S-H-E-L-B-O-R-O-U-G-H ! 

Nineteen-Sixteen ! Nineteen-Sixteen ! Nine- 

TEEN-SlXTEEN! ” 


19 


MASQUES 

The cheer ended with a hang of desk tops and 
the girls, one by one and in groups, hurried out into 
the hallway like so many pardoned prisoners. The 
“ Big Three,” alone, hung behind. 

“ I sort of hate to leave this room,” Angela be¬ 
gan. “ It’s sentimental to feel that way, but I-” 

“ Well, I can’t say that I do,” Vera’s cold voice 
cut in. “ I’ve been here four years and I’m glad 
I’m through. How about you, Milly? ” 

Mildred, her plump body perched on one of the 
window sills, her brown eyes gazing off dreamily 
into space, came to with a start. 

“ She was thinking of one of her latest beaux,” 
Angela laughed. “ You shouldn’t have disturbed 
her, Vee.” 

Mildred giggled. “ Oh, no I wasn’t. Haven’t got 
any beaux! ” 

She didn’t lisp, and yet something in her inflec¬ 
tion gave the effect of baby-talk. She slid from the 
sill and paddled over to Angela, where she climbed 
upon one of the desks and rested her feet on a 
chair. 

“ I'll tell you just one thing,” she confided, and 
she beckoned with a plump finger to Vera, who 
half-heartedly joined the others. “ You know 
George Warbridge?—lie adores me. I suppose ”— 
she waved one arm in a vague gesture—“ I suppose 
if I lived to be a hundred he’d still adore me. Well, 
last night he came over to see me, and I told him I 
was going away to the country for the summer so 

20 



PROLOGUE 

soon, and everything. And—and what do you 
think? He-” 

“ I suppose he kissed you,” Vera broke in calmly. 
“ That’s easy to guess. Why do you make such a 
fuss about it? ” 

Mildred pouted. 

u Why, Milly! ” Angela cried, her frank eyes 
widening. “ You didn’t let him kiss you when you 

aren’t engaged? You wouldn’t be so-” 

u Shhh —! ” Mildred hissed, and a perceptible 
wave of relief passed across her face as the prin¬ 
cipal's wife appeared in the doorway. Angela was 
sometimes fearfully tiresome. 

Mrs. Shelborough thrust her head in at the door 
like a shy child. “ I thought I’d just come and see 
you a moment before you go,” she began. “ It’s the 

last day and-” 

The three girls rose. 

“ Come in, do! ” 

“ Sit down here, with us! 99 
“ So glad you did come! ” 

Perhaps it was because Mrs. Shelborough never 
gave orders that she had endeared herself to the 
pupils. Perhaps it was because they were sorry 
for her. But probably it was neither of these rea¬ 
sons. She had caught them all talking during 
study periods a hundred times, and had never re¬ 
ported the matter. That fact in itself was enough 
to explain her popularity. At any "rate, to Angela 
she seemed a dear little woman who would have 

21 





MASQUES 

been quite splendid, except for her husband; Mil¬ 
dred thought her “too sweet”—and even Vera 
didn’t object to her. 

“You’re going to leave us,” Mrs. Shelborough 
murmured. She looked at each of the three young 
faces, and her glance was searching, wistful. “ I 
wonder what the future has in store for you. I 
hope it will be kind to you. I hope-” 

“ Oh,” Angela cried, “ we’re going to make our 
own futures! We have it all planned.” 

“ Yes,” Mildred chimed in, “ Angela’s going to 
be a famous authoress and Vera an actress and I’m 
—I’m-” 

“ She’s going to get married within two years,” 
Angela predicted. “ We don’t know to whom, yet, 
but she’s headed down-stream.” 

Vera added: “And she’ll live happily forever 
after—won’t you, Milly? ” 

Mildred blushed prettily. 

Mrs. Shelborough laughed, then sobered sud¬ 
denly. “ If only one could plan the future. But— 
well, I wish you all success. That’s what I came 
for. I—I probably shan’t see you again before the 
five-yearly reunion.” 

“ Of course you will! ” All three were equally 
indignant. 

But Mrs. Shelborough smiled faintly. “ Xo. 
You’ll intend to come back, but you’ll have other 
interests. I’ve seen it so often.” She paused, then 
hesitatingly began again: “ Girls-r-you say that you 

22 




PROLOGUE 


are going to direct your own lives. I hope you may 
—but—but wouldn’t it be interesting after five 
years to see how far each of you has succeeded? ” 
Angela’s pale features lighted. “ Yes. To meet 
at the reunion and compare notes on what we’ve 
done. I’d love that! ” 

“ Lots of fun! ” Mildred agreed. 

“ We’ll do it if you like,” Yera responded. “ Of 
course we’ll see each other meanwhile, probably. 
But we’ll come and tell you what we’ve done, Mrs. 
Shelborough. Jlist to prove that one can be master 
of one’s destiny—in spite of what the scientists 
say.” 

Thus the plan was formed, and three eager faces 
looked out into the future. 

Mrs. Shelborough sighed. . . . She had seen 
so many such faces before. . . . She won¬ 
dered. . . . 


4 

The assembly hall decorated sparsely with senile 
palms; weary smilax loosely twined about Greek 
pillars. Perspiring parents uselessly fanning them¬ 
selves with four-inch programs, while they nerv¬ 
ously rehearse their daughters’ coming recitations 
in their own minds. Dr. Shelborough in a morning 
coat, with a bow of genial recognition for everyone, 
his wife in gray, slightly flushed and already wor¬ 
ried over her duty of passing him the diplomas 
after his speech. * 


23 


MASQUES 

Suddenly tlie blurt of the organ in tbe first meas¬ 
ures of tbe school hymn, and all eyes to the door¬ 
way. 

“We march, we march to vietoeree 
With the cross of the Lord befoeruss, 

With His Loving Eye looking down from 
the sky 

And His Holy Ann spreadoeruss, His 
Holy Arm spreadoeruss! 

We come in the might-” 

The processional, led by the younger children, 
singing lustily and marching out of stej), then 
growing taller, class by class until the end, the 
graduates. 

A pretty class, as pretty as lovely gowns and 
careful grooming could make them. Perhaps a 
trifle too pretty, over-cultivated, over-perfect. 

A chord, and the school sinking into chairs un¬ 
evenly, like waves of the sea. A general rustling 
of programs. 

Mildred Fahnstock, first. She rose and wavered 
to the platform, where she bowed in formal fashion 
as though she were about to do a minuet. Her 
frock of organdy and real lace showed the trem¬ 
bling of her plump body, her bouquet of sweet¬ 
heart roses quivered pathetically. She gave the 
salutation in perfect French, her accent precisely 
Parisian, but quavering. As she finished, she was 

24 



PROLOGUE 


rewarded by a rousing burst of applause from the 
undergraduates, many of whom had “ crushes ” on 
her. She returned to her seat with relief; now she 
could enjoy the rest of the program. 

Vera, next. Calm, cool, perfectly poised, in her 
simple white crepe. A voice like hers must not pass 
unnoticed on Commencement Day—particularly 
when it was so well suited to Shelley’s Ozymandias 
of Egypt, a favorite of the doctor’s. She knew that 
she recited well; she had no thrill at her reception. 
When it w T as over she only felt a tritle scornful. 

For Angela Day, the valedictory. . . . She 

hadn’t wanted it ordinary, but it was, absurdly so. 
She had written her speech herself, had said what 
she really thought, what she knew that her class 
thought. Her paper had been promptly confiscated 
by the head of the English Department and a more 
conventional speech substituted. She delivered it 
now, half-wearily, lialf-rebelliously. She bade the 
school a sweet but sad farewell while inwardly she 
felt an anarchistic impulse to fling her bouquet 
swiftly and surely at Dr. Shelborough’s square, 
beatific head. 

Once she was seated the good doctor, himself, 
arose. He fitted his thick fingers neatly across his 
rounded abdomen, smiled balmily, and began. 

“ To-day w r e are at the crossroads . . . 

where the brook and river meet . . . little 

birds leaving the nest. . . .” 

Mildred shifted restlessly and wondered whether 

25 


MASQUES 

George War bridge would bring her violets to-night, 
when he came. Vera, beside her, sat gazing with 
bored eyes at one of the doctor’s shoes, mentally 
counting the number of times that he used the word 
“ little.” 

But Angela was far away. . . . Would life 
really be so different, now? Were they truly at the 
crossroads? Or was that simply another one of 
Dr. Shelborough’s stupid exaggerations? . . . 

She was eager to find out. 


26 


BOOK I 
MILDRED 


















CHAPTER I 


1 

On the night after Mildred’s graduation, George 
Warbridge came again. Although she wasn’t sup¬ 
posed to have the same caller more than twice in a 
week, an exception was sometimes made in George’s 
case. He was the sort of young chap to whom no 
family could possibly object. If he married Mil¬ 
dred she would be comfortably settled for life, if he 
didn’t she would be left none the worse off for hav¬ 
ing been thought engaged to him. 

Of course Milly was extremely young, and she 
hadn’t been formally brought out as yet. There 
was plenty of time for her to think of marriage. 
She was already thinking of it quite hard, though, 
if the truth were known. 

George, in Milly’s eyes, was a godsend. She had 
quarrelled with the victim of her last flirtation, just 
after becoming definitely, though privately, en¬ 
gaged to him. George filled the gap so nicely. One 
never could be reallv excited over him, but he was 
so well-groomed, and she could go with him to 
dances and show people that there was still a very 
desirable fish in her sea. Particularly she could 
flaunt him before the sight of her former lover. 

He had a great many pleasant little habits that 
attracted her to him. He sent her flowers fre- 

29 


MASQUES 

quently, and his taste in corsage bouquets was al¬ 
most too perfect for a man. Yet he wasn’t in the 
least a mollycoddle. His ruddy skin and some¬ 
what stocky physique proved that. 

Then there were some things about him that she 
didn’t like so well. She didn’t like the way he sat, 
with his feet far apart and rather toed-in. And 
she didn’t like his eyes. They never sparkled, or 
danced, or twinkled, or had any of the expressions 
that eyes are supposed to have. They just looked 
at you, and occasionally they blinked. 

But George wouldn’t make a bad husband at all. 
If the worst came to the worst, she could always 
accept him. And he adored her. Mildred had been 
certain of that ever since he had kissed her the night 
before. He had seemed a bit reticent until then; 
she hadn’t known quite how to explain his reserve. 
George, however, was not one to kiss lightly and 
forget. For the first time she was even slightly, 
ever so slightly thrilled by him. She speculated as 
to whether the feeling would last. 

When he came that evening, he brought her vio¬ 
lets, just as she had hoped he would. Only they 
were big single ones, and there was a queer green 
orchid in the center. They were exquisite. 

“ Oh, George! How dear of you! ” 

She had fluttered down the marble staircase when 
she heard the maid admit him, and she was untying 
the box while he laid his overcoat and hat on the 
carved walnut table. 


30 


MILDRED 


“ Aren’t they lovely? ” She held the corsage to 
her waist and danced over to the wall-mirror. 
“ George, you do bring me the most bee-youtiful 
things! ” 

He made no answer, but stood watching her with 
his bead-like eyes. He never talked much. That 
was one of the things about him of which Mildred 
especially approved. She liked to do the talking 
herself. 

“ Come in and sit down.” She put one soft plump 
hand through his arm and drew him into the liv¬ 
ing-room. “ I’ll tell you all about the graduation. 
There, sit on the divan, and I’ll—I’ll sit beside 
you.” 

She giggled as she settled herself, and she gave 
the curls at the back of her neck an involuntary pat. 

“ The graduation-? ” George prompted. 

“ Oh, yes! It was wonderful. Everything went 
off so splendidly. I wish you could have been 
there.” 

“ So do I.” 

“ First I gave the salutation. I was awfully 
frightened. But I didn’t forget a word and when 
I was finished they applauded—a lot. Wasn’t that 
nice? ” 

“ Fine. Then who came next? ” 

“Vera Henny. Do you remember her? She 
doesn’t go in our crowd much, outside of school— 
only once in a while. She’s very good-looking. 
Well—she gave a recitation, about the desert and a 

31 



MASQUES 

Sphinx, or something. I didn't understand it very 
well.” 

“ And then? ” 

“ And then there was Angela Day. You do know 
her, of course.” 

George hushed. “ Er—yes. What'd she do? ” 

“ She gave the valedictory. Angela's so clever. 
She didn’t look very pretty, though, I thought. 
She's awfully pale.” 

“ I—I kind of like that about her. That, with 
her red hair.” 

“ Oh.” Milly stiffened. “ Well. Angela's a very 
nice girl.” 

“ You bet.” 

There was a pause. Milly didn’t care for the 
turn the conversation was taking. She held her 
bouquet at arm’s length admiringly, then buried 
her pink face in it. 

“ Ummm . . .” she breathed. “ So sweet! 
Ummmm! ” 

She expected him to move closer, to cover the 
plump hand that she had let fall so carelessly on 
the blue brocade of the divan between them. But 
as she glanced up over her flowers, she saw his 
stolid profile. He wasn’t even looking at her. 

She turned to him, her soft mouth hurt. 
“ George—tell me. Have I done anything to make 
you angry? ” 

His small eyes blinked. “ No. Of course not. 
What's the matter? ” 


32 


MILDRED 


“ I only thought—well, you sit there and you say 
nothing! ” There was a trace of impatience in her 
childlike voice. “ And—and you sit there and you 
do nothing! George—why on earth do you come at 
all? ” 

She hadn’t meant to be cross, but he was so ex¬ 
asperating. 

“ Why—you asked me to come last night. And 
I thought I’d like to hear about the graduation. 
And I wanted to say good-bye, before you went 

away-” he gulped. “ You made me promise to 

come, honestly you did! I-” 

Milly’s face was growing pinker. “ How can you 
be so—so indelicate! The idea of my making you 
promise! As though you didn’t want to come! 
And last night, when you—k-k-kissed me, I 
thought-” 

“Yes, but Millv, you wanted me to!” George 
protested earnestly. “You’d have been mad if I 
hadn’t done-” 

This was more than Mildred Fahnstock would 
endure from any man. Tears sprang to her eyes, 
and she rose to her feet with all the majesty that 
her plump softness would permit. “ George War- 

bridge-” she extended the violets toward him 

with a haughty gesture. “ You can take your old 
flowers, and—and I don’t want to ever see you 
again—not ever! ” 

And so, Mildred found herself in a rather desolate 
and lonely state when she went up-stairs to her 

33 







MASQUES 

bedroom that night. George had gone without even 
so much as a word of apology. All was over be¬ 
tween them, she told herself. And that meant that 
there would have to be someone to take his place. 
But who? Things looked extremely black just then, 
to Milly. 


o 

W 

It was Lake Mawosta for the Fahnstocks that 
summer. Mrs. Fahnstock was tired of housekeep¬ 
ing; she wouldn’t open the house at Quogue, she 
would take a “real rest.” (She explained this to 
all her friends in a weary, self-indulgent whine. 
She petted herself almost as much as she did Mil¬ 
dred. ) 

Rather a drawback for Mildred to have that 
mother. People who saw them together knew at 
once what Mildred would grow to be. Mrs. Fahn- 
stock’s plumpness sagged; her soft, baby cheeks 
were too artificially pink. She dressed exquisitely, 
though youthfully to the extreme, and her child- 
voice had turned into a whining drawl that grated 
after a few moments’ conversation. 

There were four in the family: Mildred, her 
mother, Mr. Fahnstock, who spent most of his time 
at the club and was regarded by the rest of the 
family as an easy banking system, and Malcolm. 
Malcolm was twenty, blond as Mildred, something 
of a “tea-hound,” and he had the correct concave 
abdomen endorsed by all matinee heroes and college 

34 


MILDRED 


boys. He spent bis winters at Williams and bis 
vacations at bouse-parties in tbe Berkshires, and 
bis family knew bim not quite as well as they knew 
tbe chauffeur, who bad been with them almost two 
years. 

So it was Mildred and her mother alone, who 
flitted to tbe Mawosta House that summer; flitted, 
much to Mildred’s disgust, on tbe day after Com¬ 
mencement, tbe last of May. Mildred knew from 
experience in former years that every summer re¬ 
sort is dead as far as tbe male species is concerned 
until July; she would have much preferred to re¬ 
main in New York at least until tbe colleges closed. 

During tbe train trip Mildred was inclined to be 
decidedly morose. How she was going to exist 
from then until tbe Fourth of July, she couldn’t 
conceive. But on the night of their arrival, while 
she and her mother were dressing for dinner—Mil¬ 
dred’s summer life consisted of dressing and un¬ 
dressing four times a day, and canoeing between 
times—Mrs. Fabnstock made a remark the conse¬ 
quences of which were to mean much to her daugh¬ 
ter. 

“Milly,” she drawled, “the water in the bath¬ 
tub leaks most awfully. I wish you’d go to the 
desk and complain about it after dinner. I can’t 
go myself, because I met the Thorntons and they’re 
having bridge to-night. Will you remember, now, 
darling? ” 

“ Yes, Mother,” Mildred promised sweetly. 

35 


MASQUES 

Mildred’s disposition was almost always sweet. 
Slie would do anything for anyone, provided that 
it didn’t inconvenience her too much, and when it 
did she would simply cry. She was rather easily 
injured, and when her feelings were hurt she was 
apt to lose her temper and to burst into tears. But 
Mildred, even when she cried, was sweet. Sweet¬ 
ness was an inherent quality in her. 

She finished hooking her pale green crepe dress, 
helped her mother squeeze full shoulders into a net 
that was too tight, and arm in arm, like two sisters 
(as Mrs. Fahnstock fondly imagined), they went 
down to dinner. 

The Mawosta was a house that went in for an 
elaborate menu and very little to eat. They favored 
the “ a la ” method, which meant that if you ordered 
Boeuf garni de choux you were rewarded "with a 
small portion of corned beef and cabbage, the cab¬ 
bage arranged decoratively in the shape of roses. 

Mildred, after a long but unsubstantial meal, 
wandered disconsolately dow r n the long hallway be¬ 
tween the dining-room and the office. Mawosta in 
May and June was hopeless enough in the daytime, 
but the evenings were without end. A group of 
girls called out to her as she entered the office. 
They had formed a circle in one corner of the room 
and were knitting frantically on sweaters which 
looked, half-finished, as though they were being 
made to fit kangaroos. Milly eyed her contempo¬ 
raries appraisingly. Not much competition here, 

36 


MILDRED 


if there were only something to compete for. They 
were as unattractive a crowd as one usually finds 
at a summer hotel. She had met most of them at 
Mawosta two years before. 

“ Get your work and join us, Milly,” one of the 
girls suggested. 

Milly fingered one of the sweaters listlessly. 
“ Haven’t got any work. Pretty color. Shetland or 
Iceland? 99 

“ Iceland. Nobody uses Shetland any more.” 

A pause. Milly yawned. 

“ I’ve got to go and make a kick. See you later.” 

She threaded her way between the little clusters 
of middle-aged men who were earnestly talking golf, 
over to the desk. It was then that she caught her 
breath, and her bounding heart played hop-scotch, 
for her gaze met the deep gray eyes of the most 
beautiful youth she had ever seen. 

He was on the other side of the desk and he was 
making out a bill, or he had been so occupied until 
he spied Mildred. Proof conclusive that he was a 
clerk—but what a clerk! 

Mildred let one of her soft hands wander aim¬ 
lessly to her yellow hair in a mannerism that she 
had, one which she knew was effective. She was 
thrilled but she felt no embarrassment; her sensa¬ 
tions perhaps best resembled those of a bloodhound 
whose leash has been suddenly cut. 

She smiled a trifle shyly and lowered her long 
lashes before beginning: “ I’m Miss Faluistock, you 

37 


MASQUES 

know . . . suite 148. I’m awfully sorry but 

there seems to be something the matter with the 
water in our bathtub. It runs all the time, you 
know. I guess it leaks, or something. Would it be 
too much trouble . . . could you . . . ? ” 

Her voice was like honey dripping through silk. 
It was as if she had said: “ I think you are the most 
wonderful thing I ever saw in my life. I’m saying 
all this foolishness about the bathtub because I 
can’t very well tell you the truth. But oh, just give 
me a chance to know you a little better and 
I’ll . . ” 

The beautiful young man blushed, and Mildred 
instantly put him down as inexperienced. 

“ I’ll see to it at once,” he said soberly. 

“ Thank you,” Mildred cooed. 

That ended their first interview. Her spirits had 
risen perceptibly. 


3 

Mildred was not one to let the affair drop there. 
By dint of subtle questioning she found out from 
the other girls something of the young man’s his¬ 
tory. 

His name, it seemed, was Henry Tadd, and he 
was the son of a neighboring farmer, who had re¬ 
cently died. He was endeavoring, by clerking in 
the summer, to start himself in at Columbia, which 
college he intended to enter the following fall. All 
of the girls agreed that he was good to look upon 

38 


MILDRED 


but “ cold as a float.” And Mildred understood by 
this that Tadd had no money, which made him 
doubly romantic, and that no one else had succeeded 
in arousing his interest in the slightest degree, 
which only added zest to her own determination to 
awaken him from that unresponsive lethargy. 

Since she had a clear field, things went rather 
smoothly for her. Mrs. Fahnstock spent her days 
in successive rounds of bridge, and rarely saw her 
daughter except at meal-times and when they were 
dressing. The other girls at the hotel played tennis 
and swam, but Mildred wasn’t athletic, so she sat 
on the porch instead and read &'mart Met and Van¬ 
ity Fair. She was careful to choose a chair beside 
a window which offered a view of the office, and 
more particularly the desk. 

Then, too, it was surprising how many questions 
popped into her head that she must ask the clerk: 
what hours the billiard room was open, whether 
there was an extra charge for meals in one’s room, 
how far it was to Tenbrook Mountain. And the 
hotel register, which always lay on the desk, held a 
strange interest for her; she would pore over it. 

Late one afternoon, less than a week after her 
arrival at Mawosta, Mildred wandered down to the 
boat-wharf. It was hot, and the office for the past 
two hours had been deserted. There was just time 
for a paddle around the lake in her canoe before 
dinner. 

She picked her way gingerly along the boards of 

39 


MASQUES 

the wharf in order that her white buckskin sport- 
shoes might remain unsullied. Her complexion, set 
off by flesh-pink sweater and skirt, seemed more 
childlike than ever, her upper lip more protruding. 
She was inclined to feel extremely sorry for her¬ 
self ; she was unmercifully bored. 

The canoe lay at one end of the dock, turned 
“ turtle ” for self-protection against the rains. 
Mildred bent over, tugged at it, moved it a bit, 
tugged again. 

“ Pardon me, Miss Fahnstock, may I-? ” 

She looked up, startled; she had really thought 
the dock empty. But it was Henry Tadd in bath¬ 
ing outfit, horribly embarrassed and dripping with 
water. His beautiful gray eyes took her in with a 
fleet, admiring glance. 

“ Can’t I—hell) you ? 99 

She stepped back daintily, to avoid being 
splashed, and her hand fluttered to her hair. She 
gave just the right impression of feminine depend¬ 
ence, of appealing helplessness, in her voice: 

“ Oh, thanks. It is awfully heavy. . . .” 

He leaned over, with a slow litheness, and lifting 
the boat without effort swung it out on the water. 
He was a sleek young savage; well-shaped head 
splendidly poised on strong, brown neck. His 
loose-set physique was of the sort that finds itself 
at ease on the athletic field. 

u Not very hard for you, is it? 99 

This, of course, was fearfully crude, but Mildred 

40 



MILDRED 


knew how far she could go. He forced a laugh 
that, nevertheless, was pleased, and extended his 
hand to help her into the canoe. 

“ Oh, well, a man-” he replied lamely. “ It’s 

different for a girl! ” 

She sank back in the canoe chair and reached for 
the paddle. Her sleeves, rolled high, showed the 
pretty softness of dimpled elbows. She looked up 
at him and lialf-pouted, half-smiled. 

He was certainly uncommonly good-looking. 
She couldn’t help comparing him with George, as 
he stood there. George would have been so stodgy 
in a bathing suit. For there was nothing of the 
young Greek about George. 

“ Now give me a big, strong—very strong push! ” 
she ordered. 

Swiftly the boat shot forward, out toward the 
middle of the lake, on and on, the water smacking 
its slim sides with loud, wet kisses. When finally 
it slowed down, Mildred began dipping her paddle 
lazily, guiding the craft toward a nook on the shady 
side. She had heard a splash behind, so she didn’t 
bother to look back; she knew well enough that 
Henry Tadd was swimming after her. Instead 
she moored the canoe on a rock beneath a low- 
hanging tree, and taking a magazine that she had 
brought along with her, she busily pretended to 
read. 

He swam up, presently, and climbed, panting, on 
a rock near by. Mildred was all surprise. She 

41 



MASQUES 

closed her book and bent forward, her plump arms 
bound about her knees. 

“ My, what a long, long swim!—but bow nice of 
you to come way out here just to amuse me! I 
guess you knew I was going to be awfully lonesome 
all by myself! ” 

Most boys, and even some men, are much like 
frightened puppies; they are so anxious to be 
friendly, yet they back away at the touch of a hand. 
Tadd gave a rather simple smile in answer to her 
exclamations, and he looked as though he wished 
very much to dive back into the water again. Mil¬ 
dred saw that she must draw him out gently, not 
too fast. 

8he searched about for some topic of conversa¬ 
tion that might lead, later, to personalities and yet 
would sound safe for the present. 

“ I think it’s just lovely out on the lake, don’t 
you? ” she babbled. “ It’s so much cooler than it 
is up in that hot, stuffy old hotel with all those hot, 
stuffy old people sitting around. And those awful 
girls. They like to knit all the time, or else play 
tennis. I don’t like to knit, and tennis is so strenu¬ 
ous. I like to get out here with a book, or some 
one person to talk to, and just sort of rest, don’t 
you? ” 

“ Well, I don’t get very much chance,” he replied. 
“ One afternoon a week—and evenings.” 

“ Yes, that’s right,” she agreed. “ You do have 
to work awfully hard, don’t you? It must be awful 

42 


MILDRED 


to make out bills and things all day long without 
anyone to talk to, or anything. I think I’d go 
crazy. But then, I suppose you get letters and all 
that, from home, so it isn’t so bad.” 

He smiled a bit ruefully. “ No, not many letters. 
There aren’t many people to write.” 

She had made the correct conjecture, and here 
was her cue. Her pretty mouth drooped. 

“ Oh . . . poor boy. And I said I was lone¬ 

some ! ” 

She was so innocently lovely, so SAveet in her 
sympathy for him, that for the moment Henry 
Tadd apparently forgot his embarrassment. He 
started in to tell her of his life at home, of the work 
he w r as going to do at Columbia, of his ambitions for 
the future. When he finished, the sun had sunk be¬ 
hind the far edge of the mountains, leaving the lake 

a crimson bath. Mildred had been an unusuallv 

«• 

good listener; she had enjoyed watching him as he 
talked. 

Later, as they parted on the dock, she turned her 
eyes wistfully to his, which were so beautiful, and 
gray, and so very sober. 

“ It’s been awfully nice—knowing you like this ” 
—she consciously faltered—“ does it have to 
end-? Couldn’t we-? ” 

“ I’m free in the evenings,” he answered eagerly. 
“ If you would-? ” 

And so it was arranged that they should 
meet every night at the wharf. . . . There 

43 





MASQUES 

was a full moon that week, Mildred happened to 
know. 

4 

In all probability, Mildred would have simply 
regarded this as one of her least interesting flirta¬ 
tions if it hadn’t been that just then she had quite 
a violent quarrel with her mother. Mrs. Fahnstock 
alternated between petting Mildred outrageously 
and finding fault with her for being selfish and 
spoiled. This time the mother’s losses at bridge 
were the indirect cause of the quarrel; Mildred in 
tears, the effect. 

That evening, much crushed, yet with the sense, 
delightful to all youth, of being misunderstood and 
unappreciated, Milly stole down to the boat-wharf 
to keep her tryst with Henry Tadd. 

Henry was a queer boy: that was Mildred’s opin¬ 
ion of him after a week of such meetings. It was 
plain to be seen that he hadn’t known many girls, 
or he wouldn’t have treated her as he did. He 
seemed to think she was a sort of angel or a goddess 
or something. Of course, that respect, that almost 
reverence of his was nice, but after all, it was rather 
silly. Mildred wanted people to show more tan¬ 
gibly that they liked her. And he was slow! 

She found him waiting at the dock for her. 
Something in the beauty of his figure against the 
moonlit lake, something eerie in the deserted boat¬ 
house and the sound of the slapping water, ap¬ 
pealed to her instinct of the drama. 

44 


MILDRED 


She stretched out one arm toward him in a little, 
pleading gesture; her other hand was at her hair. 
“ Oh, Henry. Ian in such trouble.” 

“ Trouble? ” He led her to a rustic bench by the 
water’s edge. “ Come, sit down and tell me-” 

They seated themselves, Mildred well toward the 
middle of the bench, Henry squeezing into as 
small a space as possible at one end. She dabbed 
at her eyes with a frilly square of pink crepe de 
chine. 

“ It’s Mother . . . oh, Henry! ” her voice 

broke. “ I can’t stand it any longer.” 

She was altogether pathetic in this role, fearfully 
woebegone, fearfully pretty. Henry moved away 
still farther. 

“ Tell me,” he said huskily, “ tell me all about 
it.” 

She commenced the tale of the quarrel in her 
sweet, choked voice. Her imagination dramatized 
it, making it a gigantic affair of parental cruelty 
and abuse, as she continued. 

u It’s—it’s just awful,” she finished. “ I don’t 
know how I can go on. I’m—I’m so un¬ 
happy. . . 

Her lovely face, upturned to his, was hallowed in 
the pale light; her eyes, still tearful; her sad, half* 
pouting mouth. 

“ If there were only something I could do,” he 
said miserably. u You know I’d—well, I’d die for 
you, Milly. I believe I would. And I’d marry you 

45 



MASQUES 

this minute and take you away where you’d be 
happy again if only-” 

He stopped awkwardly, his thought broken. 
Milly was looking at him with a curious interest;, a 
sort of surprised wonder. 

Strange that she hadn’t thought of him in con¬ 
nection with marriage before this. The idea hit 
her now with a terrific force. He was so much 
better looking than George Warbridge. It would 
be lovely to have a really handsome husband! And 
her mother would never forgive herself. . . . 

Milly chuckled inwardly. 

“ You’d marry me if what-?” she asked 

softly. 

He shrugged. “ Oh, if I had any money and if 
I’d finished college. But I can’t. I haven’t any¬ 
thing.” 

Mildred drew away. “ If you loved me you’d 
make me marry you in spite of everything. You’d 
give up college and get a job and take care of me. 
You wouldn’t ever let people treat me like this— 
not if you ioved me.” 

“ Milly, I do—I do! ” 

She had him fast, then, as any dumb animal in 
a trap. He put fumbling hands on her shoulders 
and kissed her on one soft cheek, tenderly, as in 
sanctification. 

Mildred grimaced. “ Oh, not like that! This 

way-” She lifted her full lips and one plump 

white arm slid about his neck. When, finally, she 

46 





MILDRED 

let him release her, his calm gray eyes were dazed, 
but starry. 

u What fun! ” she chattered. u "We’ll go down 
to Melrose this very night and get a license and be 
married right away—you can in Pennsylvania, you 
know. ‘Mrs. Henry Tadd’—doesn’t that sound 
queer? ” 

It would be a frightful shock to Mrs. Falmstock, 
Mildred liked the idea immensely. And the other 
girls—wouldn't Vera and Angela open their eyes? 
Yes, and that horrid old George Warbridge, too! 
Life was certainly exciting, after all. 

5 

In the station at Melrose, Henry and Mildred 
Tadd awaited the Philadelphia Express. From the 
hotel they had walked to town, a distance of two 
miles, had secured a license, and had raced through 
the wedding ceremony, hardly knowing a word of 
what they said, in their anxiety to catch the train 
to the city. Now, with fifteen minutes’ leeway, they 
betook themselves to the waiting-room, to an in¬ 
conspicuous corner. 

Mildred was tired, but still pleasantly excited, 
still talkative. 

“ I think Philadelphia is a lovely place to go for 
a honeymoon. I’ve been there before, oh, several 
times. The Bellevue-Stratford is nice—we’ll go 
right there. They have dancing, you know—a mar¬ 
vellous orchestra.” 


47 


MASQUES 

Henry looked at lier soberly; he had grown very 
quiet. “ We can't go there, Milly. We-" 

“ Philadelphia Ex press! All aboard for Phila¬ 
delphia ! " 

They rose with the crowd, then made their w r ay 
out to the train. Mildred started forward, toward 
the engine. 

u Here we are! " Henry called out. “ This is all 
right." 

Mildred turned about. “ But the Pullmans-" 

“ We go in the day-coach." 

“ Oh." 

Her face fell and she followed him submissively. 
Once they were settled, she brightened. “ It isn’t 
so bad, as long as you couldn't get parlor-car seats 
so late. It’s rather a lark." 

The train had started; Mildred put her hands up 
to the window to shield her eyes from the light, and 
peered out. Wide, dark fields and farmhouses, a 
dizzy succession of ink-black trees. She turned 
back to the lighted car and dropped her hands in 
her lap. Henry's seal ring hung loosely on her left 
third finger; she must get a real wedding-ring in 
Philadelphia, engraved platinum or platinum with 
diamonds would be the thing. 

She slipped her arm through Henry's and smiled 
up at him. 

“What hotel shall we go to? Don’t you 
like the Bellevue? Where are you going to take 
me?" 


48 




MILDRED 


He pulled a small book from bis pocket, and a 
pencil. The book was filled with figures. “ I don’t 
know,” he answered. “ We’ll ask the Travellers’ 
Aid when we get to Philadelphia. They’ll tell us a 
good, reasonable place to go. The Bellevue is way 
beyond us—we can’t afford it.” 

Milly laughed. “ We’ll charge it to Father. He 
pays all my bills—if that’s the reason.” 

“ No, we won’t! ” His decisiveness was almost 
rude. He added more gently: “ You must remem¬ 
ber that I’m supporting you now.” 

He pulled his arm away and anxiously began to 
add a column of figures in his little book. Mil¬ 
dred’s mouth drew down at the corners; she didn’t 
speak to him again until they reached Philadelphia. 

In the station he left Mildred to make his in¬ 
quiries of the Travellers’ Aid. He came back pres¬ 
ently, and together they found their way to the 
street. 

“ There’s a taxi,” Milly said as they reached the 
curb, and she started to signal the chauffeur, but 
he stayed her hand. 

“ Not for us! You don’t seem to realize ——-! ” 

Realize! Didn’t she though! With a hurt look 
she refused his aid as she boarded the trolley. 

The trolley . . . en route to a cheap board¬ 
ing-house. . . . Was this, indeed, Romance ? 

. . . Mildred wanted to cry. 


49 



CHAPTER II 


1 

Henry had a serious talk with his young wife on 
the day after their elopement. It was somewhat 
difficult to explain matters to her, he found. She 
did distracting things to her hair with those soft, 
small hands while he was speaking, and her eyes 
wandered about the cheap boarding-house room 
with a distasteful glance that added to his uneasi¬ 
ness. But he bravely told her that her new life 
must necessarily be quite different, that he had no 
money, and that they would have to struggle to¬ 
gether to breast the tide of adversity. 

His talk was candid, and sincere, and trite; it 
bored Mildred and made her fidget. When he 
finished she suggested, with sudden enthusiasm, 
that she go back to her parents for the time being. 
Wasn’t that a good idea? Of course she would 
come back to him later, after he had earned enough 
to make things easier for them. It was to be ex¬ 
pected that her mother would be most disagreeable, 
but Milly was even willing to face her now. 

Henry’s honest, handsome face fell at that pro¬ 
posal. u But, darling, marriage is sacred. You 
couldn’t leave me when you’ve promised to remain 
t in sickness, in sorrow,’ ‘ for richer, for poorer ’— 

50 


MILDRED 


when—when we love each other. It—it won’t be so 
hard when we care—so much! ” 

She relented, then. He seemed fearfully un¬ 
happy at the thought of being without her; it was 
flattering. And besides, she knew well enough that 
her father would help them out financially. It was 
only a matter of a short time. 

For Henry was really quite madly, quite desper¬ 
ately in love with her, or at least with the image 
that he thought was she. The son of plain, simple 
farmer people, who had shown him the difference 
between right and wrong in no uncertain terms, 
he took life seriously and his code was without com¬ 
plications. He believed that fairness and diligence 
won out, and he believed in being kind. He was the 
sort of person who is instinctively good from child¬ 
hood, and he saw good in everything, even when it 
wasn’t there. To him Mildred typified all that was 
lovely and delicate and helpless. Her light-hearted¬ 
ness he attributed to her youth; she was only seven¬ 
teen, two years his junior. And he hoped to be 
able to make her see his way of looking at things 
as time went on. 

That first day in Philadelphia they both really 
enjoyed. Once Henry’s sermon was over, they dis¬ 
carded the seriousness of their outlook in the fu- 
true, and threw themselves whole-heartedly and 
with a sort of innocent abandon into the pleasures 
of honeymooning. There is something rather in¬ 
toxicating in the mere fact of being a bride, and 

51 



MASQUES 

Milly felt a certain elated satisfaction simply be¬ 
cause slie was registered at the boarding-house as 
“ Mrs. Henry Tadd” and not just as plain “ Miss 
Mildred Fahnstock.” The former title sounded so 
much more worldly-wise, so much more mature and 
sophisticated. 

They walked down Chestnut Street, after break¬ 
fast, in search of a jeweller’s shop. There was to 
be a w r edding-ring, of course. Henry’s seal ring 
wouldn’t do, even though they were in such ex¬ 
cessively modest circumstances. 

In the main aisle of the store that they had finally 
decided to enter, a bland middle-aged gentleman 
with a white button-holer accosted them. 

“ Something in silverware? ” 

Henry flushed. “ Er—no. Something in— 

jewelry.” 

The floor-walker bowed ceremoniously and di¬ 
rected them to a side counter, turning them over to 
a spruce young clerk. 

Milly smiled up at him. “We want to get a 
wedding-ring.” 

There was no timidity in her attitude. Henry 
might blush if he liked, but she was perfectly ca¬ 
pable of carrying off the situation. 

The clerk opened the showcase and laid out a 
tray of sparkling circlets on the counter. Milly’s 
dull blue suit, an “ import ” from Gray’s in New 
York, hadn’t remained unobserved. 

“ How lovely! Aren’t they pretty, Henry? ” 

52 


MILDRED 


Slie took one of the rings and slipped it on her 
finger, holding it off to get the effect at a short 
distance. Henry, meanwhile, had picked lip an¬ 
other and was examining the price tag. 

“ I’m sorry. I’m afraid these won’t do. Haven’t 
you something less expensive? ” 

The young clerk’s eyebrows raised. “ Perhaps 
plain platinum ? ” 

“ Yes, or even—gold.” 

“ Well, but Henry, this is just what I want. I 
like it and—and ” She broke off. A surrepti¬ 
tious nudge from Henry had stopped her. 

What was the matter with him, anyway? Didn’t 
he know that her father would be glad to give her 
all the jewelry she wanted? If Henry couldn’t buy 
her a decent ring, at least he could let that be a 
wedding gift from her own family. 

Still, it was fun to buy such things! Perhaps 
she could pretend to agree with Henry just for now, 
then later when Mr. Fahnstock gave them some 
money they could do this all again. 

The clerk had laid out a new tray filled with 
narrow gold bands. Milly bent her pink face over 
them, selected one that was delicately hand-wrought 
in a design of orange-blossoms. 

“ This one, Henry—I rather like that, don’t 
you? ” 

He caught at it eagerly, glanced at the tag. 
“ Does it suit you, really? Will it be all right? ” 

She put it on, twisting it about on her plump 

53 



MASQUES 

digit. What was the use of being unpleasant, to¬ 
day of all days? It only meant wearing the silly 
thing for a short period until she bought one that 
she really liked. 

“ Yes. It’s just what I want.” She glanced up 
sweetly. 

Later, when they were out in the street again, 
Henry had her soft hand with the gold ring tight 
in his overcoat pocket, and clasped in his own. The 
misgivings that he had experienced earlier in the 
day had miraculously flown. Milly was so reason¬ 
able ! He was confident that everything in the fu¬ 
ture would be all right. 


2 

The members of Mildred’s family, learning the 
news of her marriage, reacted in different ways. 

Mrs. Fahnstock fainted when she received 
Henry’s telegram from Philadelphia and later went 
off into violent hysterics, thereby causing much 
pleasurable excitement among the guests at Ma- 
wosta. 

A long distance call interrupted Malcolm in the 
midst of a tennis set at Southampton. He listened 
impatiently to his mother’s sobbing voice over the 
wire, as she told him of Mildred’s elopement. When 
she finished he cried: “ But, Holy Mackerel, Mother, 
couldn’t you have telegraphed? It was five-all and 
my ‘ad,’ you know.” He went back to the courts 
sadly; his game was completely anoiled. 

54 


MILDRED 

It was for Mr. Fahnstock to pursue the runaway 
couple. 

F. Gordon Fahnstock. Big and purple and im¬ 
maculate. The sort of man one would expect to 
find a tyrant in his home. As a matter of fact he 
had, at first, tried very hard to be a tyrant, tried 
and failed. Mrs. Fahnstock could whine more per¬ 
sistently than he could roar. So he had folded his 
tents and withdrawn to the seclusion of a large 
leather chair in one of the Fifth Avenue windows 
of the Union League. He confined his autocracy to 
his business and to infrequent outbursts occasioned 
by his children. He had been furious when Mal¬ 
colm was expelled from Groton; he had insisted 
upon Mildred’s graduation. He could still work 
himself into an apoplectic frenzy when an oppor¬ 
tunity arose, but it was an effort. He was growing- 
older; kindliness had laid sweet, cool fingers on 
his hot brow. 

He had succeeded in making himself exceedingly 
angry over Mildred’s elopement. Now, as he stood 
in the doorway of the “ good, reasonable hotel ” 
which Henry had chosen, one determination was 
prevalent. He would take Mildred back to New 
York with him that afternoon, and he would have 
her marriage annulled as soon as possible. 

“ Mr. Henry Tadd. I wish to see him immedi¬ 
ately.” 

The proprietor looked up from a book in which 

he had been writing. “ Name? ” 

55 


MASQUES 

Mr. Fahnstock scowled. “ ISTo matter. Just tell 
him that a gentleman wishes to see him on im¬ 
portant business.” 

The proprietor bowed, and signalled to a lone 
colored bell-boy who was reading the sporting news 
in one corner of the lobby. 

u Tell Mr. Tadd to come down.” He turned to 
his new guest. “ You can go in the parlor and sit, 
if you want to.” 

Gingerly Mr. Fahnstock seated himself on one 
of the rose plush parlor chairs. The place, on the 
w T hole, looked clean enough, still one couldn’t be 
sure. He glanced about the room curiously. Pale 
green wall paper with pink flowers badly faded, 
much black walnut and plush, much embellished 
bric-h-brac. Mr. Fahnstock was still angry, but his 
large mouth twitched. It was funny to find Milly 
in a place like this. 

u Oh, Daddy—darling! ” 

It was Mildred, all aflutter, and pretty and pink 
and appealing. She put soft arms about her fa¬ 
ther’s neck and kissed one of his heavy cheeks. But 
he stood up and shook her off rather impatiently; 
he was very warm. Then he noticed Henry. 

“ Mr. Tadd, I presume,” he remarked drily. 

Henry bowed in acquiescence. “ Yes, sir. And 
—I suppose you’re Mr. Fahnstock.” 

“ Quite so.” 

Mildred glanced from her father to her husband, 
pleasantly expectant. 


56 


MILDRED 


Henry was meeting Mr. Fahnstock’s eyes 
squarely, lionestly, and the older man instantly 
liked that look in spite of himself. He had been 
a capable judge of young men in a business way 
for thirty years; Tadd might not be brilliant, 
but he would be reliable, or Fahnstock was a 
fool. 

“ Young man, you’ve committed a very serious 
offense.” He forced his bruskness now. “ I shall 
take Mildred away with me at once. The marriage 
will be annulled.” 

Henry reddened. “You can’t do that, sir. I’ll 
fight you. She wasn’t happy with you. You can’t 
take her away.” The boy put one arm about Mil¬ 
dred and drew her close. 

Mr. Fahnstock mopped his brow. “ It’s very hot. 
If you could omit the—er—could you? ” 

Henry flushed again, and he and Mildred sepa¬ 
rated. 

Mr. Fahnstock sank down wearily in his chair, 
his purplish face more puzzled than angry. The 
marvel to him was what such a young fellow as 
Henry Tadd could possibly see in Mildred. And 
instead of holding to his purpose to break up the 
match, he began to think that Mildred, after all, 
had done rather well—far better than he would 
have expected her to do. 

“ Suppose—suppose I let you keep Mildred. 
Could you support her? ” 

Henry shrugged. “ Of course not in the way that 

5T 


MASQUES 

you’ve supported her, but I can make her happy. 
I can find work, and we’ll manage.” 

“ And if I found an opening for you in my place, 
I don’t suppose you’d object.” Mr. Fahnstock’s 
tone was dry again. 

“ I most certainly would, sir.” Henry was genu¬ 
inely indignant. “ I don’t intend to have anyone 
say that I married * on ’ the Fahnstock family! ” 

Mildred broke in: “ Oh, Henry! How silly—let 
Daddy help you! ” 

“ No. He’s right, Milly. But who’d have 

thought-” Fahnstock stopped. Suddenly he 

held out his hand to the boy. “ Son, you’re all 
right. You don’t need any help. And I’m going to 
entrust Mildred to your care, after all. But—but 
at least you’ll let me give you a letter of introduc¬ 
tion to some other firm?” 

His somewhat humble friendliness was in ludi¬ 
crous contrast to the blustering beginning he had 
made. But Henry didn’t seem to see the humor 
of it. “ Thanks,” he said soberly. u I’d appreciate 
it awfully.” 

Milly chattered: “ Now, isn’t that nice? Henrv’ll 
get a big, wonderful job and we’ll be rich. Daddy, 
stay for dinner, will you? The food is dreadful 
here, but we could go over to the Ritz.” 

Mr. Fahnstock rose, took his thin platinum and 
gold watch from the pocket of his tight waistcoat. 
“ Fll catch the next train for New York. I’ve 
twenty minutes to make it.” 

58 



MILDRED 


He shook hands with Henry and started hur¬ 
riedly out, Mildred clinging to his arm. Outside, 
his taxi was still waiting and he was about to jump 
in when she detained him with a gentle tug. 

“ Daddy, darling,” she murmured. “ Aren’t you 
going to kiss your only daughter good-bye? ” 

He looked down, frowning, into the lovely face 
upturned to his. Then he put his hand again in his 
pocket and brought out a roll of bills. “ Here you 
are. I suppose that’s what you want.” 

“ Oh, thanks! You old dear Daddy! ” 

She waved farewell prettily as he drove off, then 
tucking the roll carefully out of sight in the neck 
of her dress, she went inside. Henry was waiting 
for her by the stairway. 

“ Isn’t my Daddy just the darlingest old thing? ” 
she demanded. 

8 

Within a few days George Warbridge received a 
letter. It was written in a small, round, childlike 
hand: 

u Perhaps it will surprise you to hear from me. 
Of course I suppose you have read all about my 
marriage in the papers, there has been such a lot of 
notoriety and everything. 

“ But that’s the way it is, George, when Love 
comes. You just get swept away and you don’t 
know what you are doing. But if anyone had told 
me the night before I left for Mawosta that I'd be 
married to Henry Tadd now—why I’d have 
laughed! 


59 


MASQUES 

“You have always been a good friend, George, 
and I hope you always will be. I'm sorry we bad 
that silly quarrel. I know I must bave made you 
feel awfully, treating you tbe way I did. Will you 
forgive me? 

“ Milly.” 


It would be bard to represent tbe true state of 
George’s sensibilities since be bad beard of tbe 
Fahnstock-Tadd elopement. After that evening 
wlien be and Mildred had so unfortunately fallen 
out, be bad felt, frankly, like an unconscionable 
cad. 

He was fond of Milly. She was pretty, and a 
good dancer, and popular. All tbe other fellows 
went more or less regularly with certain girls in 
their own set, and George needed a girl. Milly 
served admirably. 

What if she bad put things so that be bad been 
forced to go and see her two and three tunes a week 
or else seem rude or brutal? He didn’t mind see¬ 
ing her; be even rather enjoyed it. And he ought 
not to bave accused her of having taken the affair 
too much into her own bands. He couldn’t forgive 
himself for that, even though she had actually 
wrung the impeachment from him. 

But in George Warbridge’s life there was a girl. 
He worshipped her at a safe distance; be was mor¬ 
tally afraid of her. She was the one whom he 
wanted to take with him to dances and parties, not 
Milly. A score of times he bad gone to tbe tele- 

60 


MILDRED 


plione to ask her to see a play with him, or to at¬ 
tend a college “ prom.” He always ended by calling 
Mildred, and he sent her the liowers that he really 
wanted Angela Day to have. 

Lately, his flirtation with Milly had gone to 
lengths that he hadn’t intended it to reach. He 
was rather alarmed at the turn things had taken. 
Mildred was one who manipulated her affairs with 
a sureness of touch that was inescapable. He re¬ 
gretted his behavior on the evening of the quarrel, 
yet he almost welcomed the estrangement. 

So now, Milly was married! And he, George 
Warbridge, was free again, free from any suspicion 
of an entanglement. He reread her note: 

u That’s the way it is, George, when Love comes. 
You just get sw r ept away and you don’t know T what 
you are doing. . . ” 

He shook his head slowly. That w r asn’t the w T ay 
it was with him. Love came, and its shining splen¬ 
dor struck him dumb; it beckoned from the stars, 
and his hesitating feet w r ere caught in the clay of 
the earth. 

At his desk he composed a short, congratulatory 
letter to Mildred. He was so thoroughly glad that 
she had realized her happiness. But then, she de¬ 
served it: she w r as willing to go after what she 
wanted in life, she wasn’t afraid! 

The telephone, at his elbow, tempted him. Why 
not ring up Angela, just as any old friend might do, 
ask her to go to one of the hotel roofs, that even- 

61 


MASQUES 

ing? Lenox 27485 ... lie knew the number 
by heart, though he hadn’t called it since she had 
put up her hair and become a “ young lady.” 

But the sound of her voice on the wire—the very 
thought of it made George quake. He would prob¬ 
ably stammer and make a general ass of himself; 
she would think him a greater fool than ever. 

Xo. Presently Angela was going out to the coast, 
for a pleasure trip. He would w T ait until she had 
gone, then he’d write to her. Writing wasn’t quite 
so hard, and there was no danger of losing one's 
head in the middle of a sentence. He could sound 
sensible, and sane, and matter-of-fact, in a letter. 

He didn’t realize that by the time that he actually 
sent the note, his news would be most astonishingly 
different. He started on a first draft immediately. 
He wanted to be sure that he put himself in as 
favorable a light as possible. 

4 

Henry found a flat in the Bronx, convenient to 
the subway line. Mr. Falmstock’s letter of intro¬ 
duction had brought results: Henry had secured a 
clerical position in the office of a soap manufac¬ 
turing company on Warren Street. His salary was 
small, but his hopes were high. He liked his em¬ 
ployer, and it looked as though there would be an 
opportunity for advancement shortly. 

Mildred, of course, was horrified at the idea of 
living in the Bronx. She wrote to her chums, 

62 



MILDRED 


Angela and Vera, and told them to continue ad¬ 
dressing her at her old home—that she and Henry 
hadn’t settled definitely on an apartment, as yet. 
She hadn’t written before, but she had had a gift, 
accompanied by a card of congratulation from 
Siam, Ohio, where Vera was with her parents, and 
she had heard frequently from Angela, who was 
travelling in the west with her grandmother. Mil¬ 
dred simply couldn’t have them know that her pres¬ 
ent address was the Bronx. And perhaps by the 
time they returned to the city she and Henry would 
have moved to a more fashionable neighborhood. 

She received a prompt reply from Angela: 

“ What a cunning little bride you must be, Milly. 
I can picture you searching Park Avenue for an 
apartment that just exactly suits, with that serious, 
oh-so-business-like expression that you have some¬ 
times. And then the breakfast-room wouldn’t get 
the morning sun, or something equally terrible, so 
that you couldn’t possibly consider that particular 
apartment, you know. . . . Oh, it’s a thrilling 

life, isn’t it? 

“ But it seems especially thrilling when one reads 
the papers, these days. Belgium occupied, the 
Germans marching on Paris. I wonder when it 
will be our turn to come in and try our hand at 
giving the Bosch a run for his money. It almost 
looks as though it already had been our turn and 
that we’d passed it up. 

“ Los Angeles is a heavenly place, Milly. If you 
and Henry hadn’t already honeymooned, I’d sug¬ 
gest that you come out here tout de suite . I, less 

t>3 


MASQUES 

sentimentally inclined, plan to return one fine day 
and write. The inspiration of the southern skies, 
you know, and all that sort of thing. Grandmother 
adores the place. She tears about like a young 
colt on a fall day. She wears me out, trying to 
keep up with her. Heaven knows when we’ll be 
back—that is, unless there’s war. It’s dreadful to 
say, but I hope there will be. I’m sick of this 
everlasting 4 watchful waiting’—it’s exasperating 
as well as humiliating. . . 

Mildred sighed as she folded the letter. It had 
come on the late mail just as she was busying her¬ 
self with dinner. ]STow she glanced about the un¬ 
tidy kitchen poutingly . . . her breakfast 

room! She lifted a heavy pan full of water and 
peeled potatoes, with her rubber-gloved hands, set¬ 
ting it jarringly on the rusty stove. 

She hadn’t started early enough to prepare the 
meal; it would be late, the potatoes would be half- 
cooked, the meat tough. That kitchen, with the 
breakfast and luncheon dishes piled, unwashed, on 
the tubs, the soft wood floor that was splintering— 
how she hated it! 

She wondered, as she did at this time every 
evening, why it was that she remained with Henry. 
Even though her mother was still angry and had 
refused to see her, Mildred knew that if she re¬ 
turned home she would be forgiven. No, it was 
simply her kind heart that kept her; Henry would 
miss her so, if she went. For she had grown to 
care, in her way, for Henry. He spoiled her ap- 

64 


MILDRED 


pallingly. The future looked brighter, certainly. 
She would hang on a trifle longer and avoid a 
break; she so disliked disagreeable scenes. 

She went out into the tiny parlor that was strewn 
with newspapers. Stale ashes from Henry’s pipe 
were unemptied, in a tray on the mission table. It 
seemed to Mildred as though she had spent all day 
cleaning house, yet nothing was tidy. She was too 
tired to do more now; she crossed to the window. 

The Catholic Church across the street was pour¬ 
ing forth crowds from every doorway, and Mildred 
suddenly remembered that it was Good Friday 
. . . Good Friday . . . that brought recol¬ 
lections. . . . When she was fifteen she had 

fallen in love with one of the choir boys at St. 
Matthew’s. He had looked so handsome in his 
black robe on Good Friday. . . . 

The sound of a newsboy crying an extra and the 
sight of Henry coming down the street, brought 
her back. Henry waved to her without smiling and 
climbed the steps of the stoop wearily. He was 
looking older lately; she thought it became him. 

She faced about as he entered the room, and she 
ran to meet him. 

“ Oh, Henry, I-” 

He stopped her with a sober gesture and held up 
his newspaper for her to read. 

War Declared !!! War Declared !!! 

War Declared !!! 

65 



MASQUES 

Her baby voice read the words of the headline 
falteringly. They didn't mean much to her. But 
Henry’s grim face frightened her terribly. Sud* 
denly she began to cry. 


But when Henry explained the situation to Mil¬ 
dred, she felt much better. If he went to war she 
would be able to return to her parents, with his 
consent. He would look splendid in a uniform; 
she would be awfully proud of him. And Henry 
assured her that the percentage of casualties would 
be so small. 

Then something happened that made her decide 
quite definitely that Henry must stay at home. 
Two days after war was declared the man just above 
Tadd, in his office, enlisted. That left a better posi¬ 
tion open for Henry. 

“ Oh, darling—it’s your chance! ” Mildred cried 
when he told her the news. “ It’s what we’ve been 
waiting for! Isn’t it just lovely? Of course you 
can step right into his place and-” 

Henry passed his hand back over his forehead, 
and frowned. “ But I’ve got to go, too. I can’t 
stay home and take his job while he goes out and 
gets killed for me. That’s what it amounts to.” 

Mildred pouted. “ You don’t think very much of 
me, do you? You don’t care how lonely and sad 
I’ll be all alone. No . . . you think of your¬ 

self—and—and the glory that you’ll get.” 

66 



MILDRED 


She looked very miserable and pathetic and 
childlike as she sat curled up in one of the stiff 
mission chairs. Her head bent forward on her 
arms showed the stray yellow curls at the back of 
her neck. After all, he had married her, had 
promised to care for her—and she was so helpless! 
He cleared his throat gruffly and changed the sub¬ 
ject. He felt that he would be willing to do almost 
anything then, to make her happy. But he couldn’t 
be a slacker ... he couldn’t. . . . 

One day Malcolm came to see them. He hadn’t 
called before, he probably wouldn’t have come then 
but for the fact that he was down from Plattsburg, 
filled with excitement over his new uniform, which 
he wanted to show his sister. 

Henry, who met him for the first time, sized 
Malcolm up as a typical New York millionaire’s 
son: spoiled, sophisticated, frivolous. Yet there 
was something lovable in him as there was in Mil¬ 
dred. He looked remarkably well in khaki; Henry 
noted that his uniform was that of an infantry 
lieutenant. 

“ Well, what do you think of it? Pretty doggy, 
eh? ” Malcolm swung about the better to display his 
new magnificence. 

But Milly wasn’t enthusiastic. She glanced at 
Henry uneasily. “ It’s all right, Mai. But you’re 
too thin for tight fitting things. You look like some 
sort of a long brown bug, or something.” 

They hadn’t spoken of the war, not since that 

67 


MASQUES 

evening when Tadcl had reported the news of his 
superior's enlistment. But Henry had been secretly 
investigating different branches of the service; he 
hadn't given up the hope of convincing Mildred 
that he ought to go. He w T as sure that she would 
see it as he did. 

With that end in view he began to question 
Malcolm about his regiment, his company, his offi¬ 
cers. But as Henry became the more interested, 
Mildred grew equally bored. She was bored, and 
yet she was vaguely worried. She tried several 
times to break into the conversation with some 
flippant remark, but she received no attention. 
Malcolm, his young face glowing with unwonted 
enthusiasm, w T as giving a detailed description of 
his camp while Henry listened like one entranced. 

She was relieved and thankful when at last they 
were rid of Malcolm. She was so anxious to bring 
things back to the commonplace. She perched on 
the arm of Henry’s chair and pulled his necktie 
straight. “ Funny old thing,” she murmured. 
“ Can’t even tie your cravat without me, can 
you? ” 

“ Ho,”—he captured one of her hands and patted 
it gently. “ I’m going to miss you, Milly, terri¬ 
bly.” 

Mildred pulled away. “ Miss me? ” Her plump 
pink features were drawn with alarm. “ Henry— 
what do you mean? I—oh ” 

She broke off with a moan and quick tears .filled 

68 



MILDRED 


lier eyes and ran down lier round cheeks. u Henry 
—I—couldn’t—I-” 

Everything was wrong: this awful war, Henry 
would lose his one opportunity for advancement, 
they would remain poor—live in the Bronx forever! 
She rocked back and forth and sobbed. 

“ I can’t—stand it—I—can’t—oooooli-” 

She was half-laughing, half-crying now. Mrs. 
Fahnstock had often had hysterics; Mildred hadn’t 
realized before what a comfort it was. She gave 
herself up completely to an orgy of sobs and shrieks. 
Henry ran for water, bathed her forehead, his 
solemn face white with fear. 

“ Darling, stop! I’ll do anything if you’ll stop! ” 

She grew calmer by degrees though she still wept 

copiously. “ Promise me—promise me-” she 

faltered. 

Henry gave her a distracted look. “I promise 
you. I won’t do anything to make you unhappy. 
I promise.” 

He turned suddenly and went out to the kitchen. 
He w r anted to be alone. ]S T ow that she was quiet 
lie could leave her. He covered his face with his 
two hands and a feeling of utter disappointment, of 
shame, suffused him. “ Oh, Women! ” he muttered. 
“ These Women! ” 


69 






CHAPTER III 


1 

Mildred’s baby was bom the following summer. 
She thought it a pity that the arrival came so soon, 
but she was glad in a way, because she had begun 
to worry about the draft. There was no doubt that 
Henry was safe now; if necessary she could put 
things before the conscription board in such a man¬ 
ner that they couldn’t possibly take him away from 
her. 

Henry had changed a good deal lately; in some 
ways she thought he had improved. He had always 
been wonderful looking, and he was that, now, as 
much as before. But though he had never erred on 
the side of vivacity, recently his quietness had in¬ 
creased. He talked less and he moralized very 
little, which, all in all, was a comfort. Since his 
promotion in business he had become far more seri¬ 
ous. He rarely laughed. It was natural, however, 
that his new responsibilities should weigh upon 
him. 

There was something pathetic, something almost 
profane in Mildred’s maternity. She Avas so young, 
and she took it so lightly. She offered no joyous 
Magnificat at the birth of her son; she regarded 
her motherhood as a matter of course. People got 

70 

«L * 


MILDRED 


married and then they had children, that was all. 
The question of a divine commission never entered 
her blonde head. 

Mrs. Fahnstock came to see her daughter for the 
first time when the baby was six weeks old. She 
hadn't communicated with Milly since her mar¬ 
riage, and the news of the child’s advent had made 
her doubly furious. She had no desire to be a 
grandmother at forty-three. But then curiosity 
overcame her; she forgot all anger in the anxiety 
to see the new Henry Tadd. 

She appeared at Mildred’s door one day without 
previous announcement. 

“ You’re an ungrateful girl, or you would have 
come to me and apologized for leaving me the way 
you did. 3 nearly had a nervous breakdown as a 
result. You don’t love me! ” 

All this, in the hallway, while Milly stood on the 
threshold of the fiat in a pink apron, with a dish¬ 
cloth over her arm. 

“ Mother! I never supposed it was you! Come 
in. I want you to see the baby.” 

Mildred took her mother’s hand and drew her 
inside. Mrs. Fahnstock’s clothes, from shoes to hat, 
were new to her daughter. They were too youthful 
for her as usual, but they were charming, and they 
must have cost a great deal. Milly eyed them 
greedily. 

Mrs. Fahnstock, meanwhile, was squinting about 
the apartment, as Mildred led her in. She was 

71 


MASQUES 

near-sighted but she refused to use a lorgnette. 
She thought one would make her look older. 

“ What a funny place! Milly, you poor child! ” 
It was pleasant to be pitied. Mildred sighed. 
“ There’s the baby. Don’t you want to see him? ” 
Mrs. Fahnstock crossed to the crib and peered in. 
“ Well, um was a tweetest sing! ” she drawled as 
she bent over the child. “ Why don’t you keep his 
clothes cleaner, darling? He looks so untidy.” 

u I can’t help it,” Milly retorted. “ 1 wash and 
scrub and wash all day, I declare I do. It’s easy 
enough for you to criticize. It’s different when you 
have a house full of servants and everything.” 

Mrs. Fahnstock shook her head and her soft, 
vermilion cheeks wobbled. She had intrusted both 
Malcolm and Mildred to the care of nurses and 
governesses until they were fully grown. She was 
an experienced mother; she knew how children 
should be brought up. She dilated on the subject. 

“ Oh, yes, I know all that,” Milly said crossly 
when her mother finally paused for breath. “ But 
I tell you it takes money to raise children in the 
right way, and we haven’t any money. Even with 
Henry in his new position—why, I haven’t a thing 
—and it’s like squeezing blood from a stone to get 
a dollar out of Henry, anyway. Oh, Mother, you 
don’t know—you’ve never suffered like this! ” 

She was a lovely young martyr, and her mother’s 
red lips quivered sympathetically. 

“ Poor darling! ” 


72 


MILDRED 


For an hour they talked, Milly confiding all her 
woes to Mrs. Fahnstock’s highly inquisitive ears. 
But these mission chairs were really so uncomfort¬ 
able, and the untidy room got on her nerves. She 
finally rose to go. 

“ Fll just leave a little something to help along ” 
(she emptied her gold mesh-bag on the fumed oak 
table), “and Fll speak to your father and ask him 
to send you a check. It’s a pity, dear, that 
you-” 

“ Oh, thanks—thanks, Mummy! ” 

“ Mummy ” was Mildred’s pet name for her 
mother; she used it unconsciously when she wanted 
Mrs. Fahnstock to do something for her. Her 
round face was aglow now. Her father would help 
them; everything would be all right. . . . 

Later she came back to the tiny front room and 
stood over the baby’s crib for a moment, gazing 
raptly down at him. He was woefully small and 
wrinkled, and he had a shock of brown fuzzy hair 
that gave an altogether comic effect. But Mildred 
thought him “ too adorable ”; she knew he would 
grow up to look just like Henry. 

“ Millv’s pwecious lambie! ” she cooed. 

He was asleep, now, and quiet. When he cried 
she had other names for him. 

She went over to the table and picked up the 
money that her mother had left. Fifty dollars— 
that would do until Mr. Fahnstock sent more. 
She hid the bills in a vase that Yera had sent as a 

73 



MASQUES 

wedding gift; it was quite as well for Henry not to 
know. 

So, when he returned from work that night he 
found Mildred, curled up in a big chair with a 
book open in her lap, reciting rhymes. 

“Higgelty-piggelty, my black hen 
Lays good eggs for gentlemen. 

Gentlemen-’ ’ 

“ For Heaven's sake! ” Henry snapped. “ Why 

don’t you do something useful? I should think if 

you were going to read instead of getting dinner, 

you’d take one of those children’s dietetics books T 
•/ 

gave you instead of Mother Goose! What on 
earth ——! ” 

It was the first time he had spoken to her like 
this; he must be very tired. But she was hurt, just 
the same. 

“ I’m going to be a companion to my son, not a 
nurse-maid! ” she said stiffly. 

And presently he begged her to forgive him. He 
found her in the kitchen with her head buried in 
her plump arms, weeping bitterly. 

9 

JmJ 

Henry was, as a matter of fact, learning much 
concerning himself, as w r ell as concerning Mildred. 
Never before given to introspection, he had in the 
past year made one important discovery; he was 
weak. 


74 




MILDRED 


If lie hadn’t been weak he would have gone to 
war. He stayed home because he couldn’t leave 
Milly. Not because she needed him for any phys¬ 
ical support, but because he hadn’t the moral 
strength to make her unhappy, no matter how just 
the cause. That proved conclusively his spiritual 
feebleness; Henry faced the fact honestly, but with 
a growing bitterness. 

For, he continued to remain quite as much in love 
with Mildred as he had been when he first married 
her. Many of her ways annoyed him, yet he 
wouldn’t have traded her for the most scrupulous 
housewife and conscientious mother in exist¬ 
ence. Milly was illogical, trivial, but—he loved 
her. 

It hadn’t been easy, nevertheless, to brave the 
silent but perfectly evident intolerance of the other 
men in his office. Henry, as soon as war was de¬ 
clared, had openly and enthusiastically proclaimed 
his intention of enlisting. But the man above him, 
who hadn’t talked, had gone immediately and 
Henry had taken his place and his salary. 

“ Pretty soft for you, this war, huh, Mr. Tadd? ” 

His stenographer had been the only one to accuse 
him actually of “ slacking.” The others, the older 
men—many of whom would have given all they 
possessed for the opportunity that Henry was pass¬ 
ing—simply ignored him. 

But a letter from Mr. Fahnstock to Milly was 
the thrust that cut most deeply: 

75 


MASQUES 

“Your mother tells me that you are in need of 
money. To that I can only reply that I should 
have been perfectly willing to take you back into 
my home if Henry Tadd had thought tit to go into 
the service. But since he seems to have chosen this 
most opportune time to improve himself financially, 
I see no adequate reason why I should be called 
upon to give you aid. 

“ Malcolm, when last we heard, was beating back 
the Bosch in Flanders. He has hopes of a cap¬ 
taincy, and his letters are cheerful and full of cour¬ 
age. He is a fine boy. I’m delighted with him. 

“ Inclosed you will find a check made out to you. 
I wish you to open a savings account for my grand¬ 
son. Neither you nor Henry need appeal to me for 
money again. It’s utterly useless.” 

Henry passed the letter back to Mildred. His 
mouth in its grimness was almost ugly, and the in¬ 
stinct of preparedness caused Milly to assume a 
hurt expression. 

“ Do you mean to say that you asked for money 
from your father without telling me? Do you 
mean-? ” 

“ Now, Henry,” Milly quibbled, “ don’t be un¬ 
reasonable. You’re getting so cross lately. I don’t 
know what I’ll do with you. Goodness knows I 
have a hard enough time without-” 

She offered him the bread sulkily. It was Satur¬ 
day noon, Henry’s half-holiday. There was a 
matinee she had wanted to go to. They could leave 
the baby with Mrs. Case down-stairs, she had it all 
arranged. But Henry in this humor—he would 

76 




MILDRED 


never go with her now. Still, she would broach the 
subject ; it was worth trying. 

“ Of course I'm disappointed too, darling,” she 
said sweetly. “ I thought Daddy would help us 
without any fuss. But, after all, you’re making so 
much more yourself now, we ought to have a little 
more to spend. . . . Oh, Henry! ” Her eyes 

widened as though at a sudden happy thought. 
“Henry, I just had the most wonderful idea! 
Couldn’t we—you and I—go somewhere this after¬ 
noon and forget our troubles for a while? I haven’t 
been to the theater since—oh, I can’t remember 
when. What fun! Shall we? ” 

Her enthusiasm was a trifle flat. Henry was 
looking at her much as a patient mastiff might 
watch the annoying antics of a puppy. It was use¬ 
less to be angry with her. It only meant that he 
would injure her for a few moments, after that 
she would forget what he had said to her. 

He sighed, a slow “ho—hunimm,” like a weary 
old man, and rose. “ We can’t go to the matinee— 
we can’t spend money on things like that. Besides, 
I want to be alone this afternoon. 1 want to think.” 

She heard him slam the outer door behind him, 
then she began to pick up the dishes with a pettish 
clatter. 

Poor old Henry ... he wanted to think! 
He didn’t see that when people were young that was 
the time for them to enjoy life. He’d probably save 
and save until they were both old and had nothing 

77 




MASQUES . 

to spend for. And as things were now, even her 
father wouldn’t take her back. . . . She had 

certainly made a mess of affairs when she married 
Henry. 


o 

o 

It was strange how completely Milly had dropped 
out of her old New York set. A little over a year 
ago she had been bound by common interests to a 
group of young people of whom she had always 
been an integral part, and to whom she subcon¬ 
sciously considered herself more or less indispen¬ 
sable. 

Her life had been ordered somewhat as follows: 
school, from November to June with vacations at 
Christmas and Easter, counterbalanced by tive 
months of delightful summer idleness. 

The winters were by far the slowest seasons. If 
Milly had been older, they would have been the best. 
But she was still at the age when most of her con¬ 
temporaries were busy students whose parents re¬ 
fused to allow them to attend parties of any sort 
except on Friday and Saturday nights. Parties 
. . . it had been so long since Milly had gone 

anywhere! 

In the first place, Henry didn’t like to dance. 
(She hadn’t thought of such a possibility when she 
married him.) Milly had tried to teach him to fox¬ 
trot in the tiny parlor of their flat, but he wasn’t 
a bit apt. Henry was strong, and athletic, and 

78 


MILDRED 


muscular; lie might have done acrobatic dancing 
admirably if he had been taken in time. But in 
the ballroom he would be a miserable and hopeless 
failure, Milly saw that in a half-dozen nerve-fag¬ 
ging lessons. It wasn’t that he was awkward or 
that he didn’t try. Henry knew Mildred was more 
than anxious for him to learn to dance; he applied 
himself with an earnestness, a conscientiousness 
that was as praiseworthy as it was pathetic. It 
was simply that he didn’t seem to quite coordinate. 
His feet would be going beautifully and he would 
knock a candlestick off the mantelpiece with his 
arm as he turned; when he guided Milly through 
a doorway he always managed, somehow, to bang 
her elbow. She gave him up, at last, in despair. 
Henry was awfully relieved. 

They received plenty of invitations, forwarded 
from Milly’s old address. Mr. and Mrs. Henry 
Tadd’s presence was requested at every sort of af¬ 
fair from receptions to theaters and dinners. The 
only difficulty here was that Henry’s dress clothes 
were so impossible. He didn’t think so, and he 
wouldn’t replace them. But Milly declined every¬ 
thing that came, after she had dressed him up one 
time, on trial. 

So, for the present, she had lost all of her old 
friends. Even her correspondence with Vera and 
Angela languished and died. She hoped to take 
those friendships up again later on; at present she 
was nearly as content to remain unseen. There 

79 


MASQUES 

was always the chance if she did go out that people 
would become inquisitive. And she couldn’t have 
her old friends know of Henry’s and her own pov¬ 
erty. That would be unbearable. 

Still, she sometimes wondered what had become 
of George. She hadn’t heard from him since that 
one small congratulatory note that he had sent her 
after her elopement. She would have liked to write 
him again, to learn something of what he was do¬ 
ing, perhaps to go to a hotel to tea with him just 
once more, if he asked her. . . . 

Marriage was stupid—so stupid! Milly was 
more than ever tired of the monotony of it on that 
Saturday afternoon. Henry had left her and had 
gone out. Where? Some day she would leave him 
and go out. She didn’t know where. 

4 

He had said that he wanted to think, and yet that 
was precisely what, most of all, he didn’t want to 
do. He was afraid to think. Always, lately, when 
his mind started to function he found that it worked 
in an unending spiral. Bound and round and on 
and on. Unsatisfactory thoughts, his. There were 
no conclusions, no denouements. 

That he wished to be alone was perfectly true. 
Milly didn’t understand, she was no good to him 
at this time. And he wanted to go where people 
didn’t know him, where he wasn’t constantly won¬ 
dering what they thought and what they privately 

80 


MILDRED 


said about him. At bis office be was uneasy, and 
at home be was glum. Better for bim to “ clear 
out ” for a wliile. 

He left tbe bouse without any particular aim in 
view, and be wandered down tbe street at a melan¬ 
choly amble. Force of habit, perhaps, guided him 
to tbe subway on which he travelled to and from 
his office every day. Habit, and the fact that sub¬ 
consciously he had grown to dislike the Bronx al¬ 
most as much as Mildred did. 

Henry had been brought up on a Pennsylvania 
farm; the loneliness of broad, sweeping fields was a 
part of him. Yet he wasn’t averse to the city. 
There was a quality in its ruthless, mad greediness, 
in its rushing impersonality, that quickened his 
blood and made him want to fight and conquer it. 
But the Bronx—here was a hybrid with the ugliness 
of the metropolis and none of its fascination, with 
the green spaces of the country boxed up in small 
squares and labelled “ For Sale.” He didn’t know 
it, but he loathed it. 

As he entered the subway kiosk he had the sensa¬ 
tion of making an escape. He marched restlessly 
up and down the station platform until a train came 
in. Without noticing what were its headlights or 
its destination, he boarded it. 

u Since he seems to have chosen this most oppor¬ 
tune time to improve himself financially, I see no 
adequate reason why I should he called upon to give 
you aid. . . ” 


81 


MASQUES 

He couldn’t get that {sentence from Mr. Falm- 
stock’s letter out of his mind, somehow. He saw it 
written in that irregular scrawl, the periods and 
commas dug hard into the paper, the down-strokes 
black and strong and uncompromising. For the 
sentence was so absolutely just, on the face of it, 
and yet after all, it wasn’t. 

Because Henry hadn’t wanted to improve himself 
for his own sake. What did a raise in salary and a 
better position mean to him in comparison with the 
mental strain that lie had undergone in those last 
months? He wanted to do better for Milly. He 
had married her and had taken her away from the 
life that she was used to; if it hadn’t been for him 
she would probably have become engaged to one of 
her many wealthy friends, and she would never 
have known the meaning of economy and all the 
hardships that go with it. . . . He owed her 

much, and the paying was proving so difficult. 
Heaven knew that he had wanted to enlist! It 
hadn’t been that he was afraid to go. He wasn’t a 
coward. 

With a start, he saw that his train was about to 
leave the Times Square station. That endless re¬ 
volving of his thoughts had shut him oft from ex¬ 
ternal things. Making a dash for the door, he 
squeezed out just as it was slamming to. He 
wanted to get to the street, to mingle in the crowds, 
to forget himself. 

Slowly, he began to walk across town. 

82 


MILDRED 


Fifth Avenue in war times. The buildings wav¬ 
ing a falsely gay greeting with a myriad brilliant 
flags; crowds breaking and shifting in kaleidoscopic 
irregularity; splashes of khaki-color and of navy- 
blue ; coins jingling in boxes extended by the hands 
of shabbily dressed society girls; the flash of a brave 
gold star on a black sleeve-band; blatant jazz from 
a group of itinerant cornets and saxophones be¬ 
tween the screeches of bus-wheels and the clangs of 
trolleys. 

Turning into the avenue, Henry halted at Forty- 
first Street. A miniature theater stage had been 
built in front of the public library and a man was 
addressing an audience of several hundred idlers. 

“Who’s that speaking?” Henry half-heartedly 
asked the question of his neighbor, a delivery boy 
with a pile of hat-boxes. 

“ Irvin Cobb,” the boy replied. “ He’s a whale, 
that man is. Gets ’em to buy more bonds than 
Theda Bara can. Been over there himself, so he 
knows what he’s talkin’ about. Cost me fifty dol¬ 
lars the last time I listened to him.” 

Irvin Cobb. . . . Irvin K.—no, Irvin S. Cobb. 
. . . He must have been the man who wrote 

things for the magazines. Henry remembered 
reading something of his in the Saturday Evening 
Post . He couldn’t recall whether it was a combina¬ 
tion business-love-mystery-adventure story, or an 
article on some international question of the day. 
He only remembered that whatever it was, Cobb it 

83 


MASQUES 

was wlio had given Henry his five cents’ worth that 
week. 

The speaker, a large, homely man with a red 
face and a prominent under lip, was addressing the 
crowd quietly, but with a sincerity that caught the 
attention and held it. His talk was punctuated by 
short bursts of applause from his audience, as 
though they wished to express their approval, yet 
hesitated to interrupt. His was no flowery elo¬ 
quence, it was a straightforward statement of facts, 
something tangible and logical for the practical 
business man, yet with that subtle emotional ajjpeal 
that attracted the swarms of shop-girls. 

He was speaking of the financial value of Liberty 
Bonds, of the interest they paid and of the safety 
of the investment. Henry had already bought two 
small bonds; this sort of speech interested him. He 
hung on the outskirts of the crowd at first, then 
by degrees edged himself forward. This man could 
talk—there was no doubt about that. 

Skillfully Cobb had changed the scene and he 
showed them France, showed it starkly, uncom¬ 
promisingly. Henry listened, caught by the picture 
of what his life might so easily have been if 
only . . . 

“ Just one thing . . . buy bonds . . . sac¬ 
rifice . . . stop until there isn’t anything left 

. . . got to do that much . . . conscience’ 

sake . . . got to. . . .” 

As the speech closed, Henry found himself ap- 

84 


MILDRED 

plauding vigorously. Then he started to turn 
away. 

“ Won't you buy a bond, please? ” 

A girl had blocked his way and was holding a 
pencil and a slip of paper out to him* A girl with 
pale features and straight, slim fingers; a girl who 
had hair the color of a robin’s breast. 

“ Please—buv a bond? ” 

Henry paused, then grabbed the paper rashly. 
“ Yes, I will—I’ll take—a lot.” Hurriedly he made 
out the slip and returned it to her. 

He had promised a sum that it would take years 
for him to pay. But he went home walking on air; 
he was happier than he had been in months. 

5 

As he entered the fiat Mildred’s voice greeted 
him petulantly. 

“ Henry, where on earth have you been all this 
time? ” 

He strode into the parlor, his eyes still alight. 

“ Oh, I’ve been down-town. Heard a man speak¬ 
ing for the Liberty Loan. Great speaker! ” 

Mildred pouted. “And I’ve been in this stuffy 
little flat," washing dishes, and darning, and taking 
care of Harry, and-” 

Henry crossed to her, put one arm affectionately 
about her plump shoulders. “ Poor little Milly! 
I’m sorry you had such a miserable afternoon. My! 
I wish you’d heard Cobb. I tell you—he was great. 

85 




MASQUES 

Darned if I didn’t subscribe most everything we 
have.” 

“ You did! You—ooooh-! ” Mildred ended 

in a wail. “ How could you? You-! ” 

It had been a mistake to tell her so suddenly. 
Henry saw that now that the news was out. He 
had taken it for granted that she would understand, 
but Milly and he never understood one another in 
matters concerning money. He ought to have 
known. 

“But Milly—it’s for the war! We’ve got to do 

it—we must help along—we-” 

Mildred stamped viciously and threw herself into 
a chair. “ Oh, Henry, if that isn’t just like you! 
To spend the money I need for the baby on Liberty 
Bonds—and then to make out you’re doing it for 
the Government! Oh, do stop pretending to be 
virtuous! Why didn’t you enlist in the first place, 
if you were so anxious to do something? ” 

From the next room came long, feline howls. The 
baby had awakened and was screaming like an 
angry cat. 


86 





CHAPTER IV 


1 

Henry never enlisted, for the armistice was 
signed the week after he gained Mildred’s permis¬ 
sion. Peace coming just at the time when she was 
all packed to return to her old home provoked 
Milly. She had made up her mind to at least a 
few months’ luxury. But she settled down again 
to her old life. Of course it was nice to have the 
w^ar over, though wasn’t it her luck to have every¬ 
thing she owned in trunks and then not be able to 
go? 

Her petulance over the Liberty Loan affair had 
been merely temporary. Henry was her husband, 
even if he didn’t have much common sense. He 
would probably be doing idiotic things all his life 
because he thought they were right. There was no 
use in remaining angry with him. Milly was, after 
all, naturally sweet and although she didn’t hesi¬ 
tate to make her disappointments public, it was 
more advantageous, she found, to play the role of 
the patient martyr. 

Not that her seeming patience made it really any 
easier to manage her household on the pittance 
Henry gave her. He only provided for the bare 

87 


MASQUES 

necessities; lie seemed not to realize that there were 
such things as u extras.” For small accessories 
Milly had been forced to break into the baby 
Harry’s savings account, more than once. She 
hadn’t told Henry that she had borrowed this 
money—for borrowing was all that the act 
amounted to. She thought perhaps Henry wouldn’t 
appreciate her point of view. He seldom did in 
such cases. 

Even in the Bronx Milly needed money. For in 
every community, however humble, there is a social 
leader, and Mildred, by coronation of her down¬ 
stairs neighbor, Mrs. Case, had been made that 
queen. She had a certain reputation to maintain. 

Mrs. Case was good-natured, red-haired, and 
Irish. She thought Mildred an u awful swell,” and 
Milly, in turn, used her as a sort of unpaid servant. 
With true Hibernian exaggeration, Mrs. Case 
spread rumors abroad of young Mrs. Tadd’s “ illi- 
gance.” Mildred could not walk upon the street 
without being conscious of a gallery of admiring 
glances and bows from women on stoops and others 
hanging from upper windows. A popularity that 
she rather enjoyed. 

Milly was, by nature, a gregarious spirit. She 
wanted a large acquaintance, and she wanted to be 
admired. She had lost complete track of her old 
school friends; she missed them. She would have 
liked, of course, to have had some of the girls see 
her baby, but not in these surroundings. She 

88 


MILDRED 


would meet tliem all at tlie five-yearly reunion. 
That would be time enough. For the present, Mil¬ 
dred was resigned to Perch Street and the obsequi¬ 
ous advances of her neighbors. 

She was kept busy caring for Harry. She fed 
him anything that seemed as if it probably wouldn't 
hurt him; she let him sleep or wake according to his 
own whim. As a result, Nature satirically made 
of him a bouncing imp of unbelievable vitality. 
And Mildred took credit unto herself. 

“ I can’t understand why mothers don’t keep their 
children healthy,” she said to Mrs. Fahnstock, one 
day. “ It’s so simple, really.” 

“ My dear, I never had any trouble with you and 
Malcolm. The little nurse-girl, Letty, that I had 
for you both—she used to let you suck pins and eat 
the varnish off things—I found out about it later. 
No, I think it’s just that children are born healthy 
or else they’re not. And you certainly can’t keep 
an eye on them all the time. You have to leave 
some of the responsibility to Providence.” 

Mrs. Fahnstock closed the subject with an em¬ 
phatic pursing of her red lips. But she had come 
to see Milly that day for a purpose. She was the 
bearer of news; she hastened to impart it. The 
clasp of her gold mesh bag caught, but she forced 
it open, and pulled out a newspaper clipping. 

“ Read this, darling.” She passed the piece to 
Milly. 

Mildred obeyed: 


89 


MASQUES 

“ Announcement has been made of the engage¬ 
ment of Miss Vera Henny to Mr. Edward K. Storm, 
of this city. Miss Henny is a daughter of the late 
Mr. and Mrs. Willis Henny of Siam, Ohio, and 
New York. She was graduated from The Shel- 
borough School in 1916. Mr. Storm is a well-known 
art collector and a member of the Iris Club. No 
date has been set for the wedding.” 

As she finished reading the notice, Milly’s face 
set in soft, dissatisfied lines. “ H’mram . . . 

she seems to have done rather well, doesn’t she? ” 

u Yes.” Mrs. Fahnstock shrugged heavy shoul¬ 
ders. “ Sometimes it pays to look about, you know, 
dear. I’ve always said that. Now if you’d waited 
and-” 

“ Oh, Mother—don’t! ” Milly wailed. She added 
crossly: “ Anyway it was your fault that I ran off 
the way I did. You scolded me and found fault 
with me until life was simply unbearable. You 
know you did! . . . Who is this man Storm? 

Does anybody know? ” 

Mrs. Fahnstock shook her head and the marcelled 
waves of hair over her ears flapped against her 
vivid cheeks. “ I’ve asked your father, but he 
doesn’t seem to have heard of him. But Mr. Storm 
must be somebody if he belongs to the Iris Club.” 

“ He must.” Milly glanced through the clipping 
again. “ c The late Mr. and Mrs. Willis Henny,’ ” 
she quoted. “ I didn’t know Vera’s parents were 
dead. She never said much about them.” 

“ Perhaps they’ve died recently. Still, you’d bet- 

90 



MILDRED 


ter not write to her about it if you’re not sure. It 

would be so awkward if-” Mrs. Fahnstock’s 

mind took a sudden jump backward. “ I might 
ask Malcolm about this Mr. Storm, perhaps he 

knows him. Malcolm-” she broke off, then 

went on eagerly: “ Malcolm has been going 

with Angela Day a good deal lately—did you 
know?” 

Her second piece of news had the desired effect. 
Milly’s baby eyes widened in amazement. 

“ Malcolm—Angela-? What do you mean? ” 

“ I don’t know, I’m sure,” Mrs. Fahnstock 
drawled. “ But the Howard Westons saw them at 
i Aida ’ the other night. Then, yesterday, I was 
going through the Yandermore and I caught sight 
of them dancing together in the big tea-room. I 
like him to be friendly with Angela—she’s so safe. 
But I do hope he isn’t serious.” 

Mrs. Fahnstock was the type of mother who theo¬ 
retically wants her children to marry, and prac¬ 
tically would do anything in her power to keep 
them single. Malcolm was her favorite. He had 
more brains than Milly, and his mother was some- 
what afraid of him. 

“ The Yandermore—dancing in the tea-room! 

Oooooh-!” Mildred moaned. “I haven’t 

danced in three years! ” 

She had already forgotten Malcolm in the in¬ 
tensity of her own discontent. 

“ Poor darling! ” Mrs. Fahnstock murmured. 

91 







MASQUES 

. . . And she left a larger roll of bills tlian 

usual on the table when she departed. 

But before Mildred went to bed that night, she 
studied her reflection in the mirror of her bureau. 

She was still pretty, there was no doubt about 
that. Plumper, perhaps, but soft, and pink and 
white. Her pale yellow hair, curling at the roots 
like a baby’s, made her look younger. And the dis¬ 
satisfied droop of her mouth lifted instinctively as 
she met her own gaze. 

“ I wonder—I wonder if I had waited—if-” 

Henry called to her from the next room: “ Mil¬ 
dred, Harry can’t seem to get to sleep. He wants 
you.” 

With a sigh, she snapped off the light and went 
in to soothe the baby. 


2 

There was something in the air, that spring after¬ 
noon, which took Mildred back to the time when 
she had worn her first evening gown, and when 
George Warbridge had brought her violets. 

A stroll on Fifth Avenue hadn’t seemed such a 
treat in those days; there had been no small Harry 
and no Mrs. Case with whom to leave him when 
one went on a shopping trip. 

She had been light-hearted then, and free. The 
worst thing that could happen to her in that care¬ 
less past was to have infinitesimal annoyances—a 
gowm made for a special occasion arriving too late, 

92 



MILDRED 


a new feather fan left inadvertently in a taxicab—- 
these had been her consummate troubles before she 
had married Henry. 

Well, she could be care-free now—even though it 
were only for one afternoon! She would put the 
present away, in the farthermost comer of her 
mind. She would be Mildred Fahnstock to-day, 
the Mildred of silver wreaths and of slim-heeled 
dancing slippers, of green orchids, and of five- 
pound boxes of Shirley’s chocolates. 

With jaunty step, Mildred picked her way among 
the crowds. Her frock, the one remnant of her 
prenuptial wardrobe, was still smart and she knew 
it became her. Fashions had changed so little, ex¬ 
cept in the length of the skirts, and a fresh ruffle in 
the neck had helped. Of course there was a hole 
under one of the arms, but if she didn’t raise her 
hand too high, it wouldn’t show. 

She hummed a tune under her breath as she 
walked along, an air from Watch Your Step, one 
that had been popular at the time of her senior 
“ prom ” at school. Her feet involuntarily kept in 
time with the syncopation. 

Occasionally she stopped to gaze in at some of 
the more exclusive shops: Mme. Darquenne’s,—she 
had always gone there for gowns and negligees; 
Gray’s for suits and cloaks; Frederick’s for shoes. 
. . . In her mind she planned an elaborate 

wardrobe of the things that she saw in the windows. 
Cream lace in tiny ruffles with a narrow ribbon 

93 



MASQUES 

girdle, wouldn't that be adorable for informal 
parties? She needed an evening wrap. A horizon 
blue brocade with tailless ermine collar was what 
she would want. Blue was always so becoming. 
And then a dinner-gown. . . . Her imagina¬ 

tion wandered on with delightful absurdness. She 
had almost forgotten Henry, and the baby, and 
even the Bronx. 

“ Why,—Milly! Mildred Fahnstock! " 

The sound of that voice fitted into the illusion. 
She swung about. 

“ George Warbridge! Speaking of angels—I was 
just thinking about you. It's ages since I've seen 
you." 

She gave him her soft plump hand eagerly. 

He was the same George, as dapper and as self- 
important as an early robin, ruddy of face, and 
with those black bead-like eyes that were so singu¬ 
larly expressionless. 

“ Well, well, you're looking fine," he said. 
“ You've gained some, haven't you? But you're 
looking fine. I hear you're the mother of a splendid 
boy." 

Mildred gave him a pained smile, but she an¬ 
swered sweetly: “ Yes. A good deal has happened 
to me since you last saw me." 

“ Well, well." 

The same taciturn manner; that familiar way of 
catching the rhetorical ball and neglecting to pass 
it back. Mildred clutched at George's companion- 

94 


MILDRED 


ship as she might have seized the vision of her own 
former estate, before it tied. Somehow he sym¬ 
bolized that old life to her; the sight of his stodgy 
figure rejuvenated her. 

They were in the center of the sidewalk at a 
corner of Forty-third Street. The crowds swam 
about, knocking against them. 

“We seem to be stopping the traffic,” Mildred 
said. “ Couldn’t we go somewhere and—and talk? 
It’s awkward standing here, and I do want to hear 
all the news, and what you’ve been doing, and 
everything.” 

George hesitated. “Well, I know a new place 
on Madison Avenue; if you’ll come over, we can 
have tea and-” 

Tea. . . . The many parties that she had 
had with George flashed through Milly’s mind. 
And to be going with him again—oh, it would be 
fun! 

“ I’d—I’d love to! ” 

Her hand started to wander to her hair in the 
pretty gesture that had been her greatest asset in 
all flirtations before her marriage. Then she re¬ 
membered the hole in her dress and swiftly low¬ 
ered her arm. 

But George was looking down the block. “ Come 
on, then,” he commanded in a matter-of-fact tone. 
“ We’ll walk there—it’s only a step.” 

As he led her across Forty-third Street, Mildred 
glanced at him sidewise, speculatively. No, he 

95 




MASQUES 

hadn't changed much. A bit more self-important, 
perhaps, but men were always more conceited than 
boys. And he was so well-groomed. She loved that 
about him. His clothes were quiet; you wouldn’t 
be apt to notice them, but if you did, you remem¬ 
bered them. The angle of his cravat was correct 
to the sixty-fourth of an inch; the ribbon band of 
his soft felt hat was a shade narrower than was 
customary. His tastes were so subdued as to be 
distinctive. Mildred had always liked to be seen 
with him. 

Idly she slipped the gold circlet from her third 
finger, and dropped it into her hand-bag. It was 
silly, but she felt so much younger without 

it. . . . 

“ Here we are.” War bridge’s voice cut in on her 
wandering thoughts. He held the door for her and 
she stepped inside. 

The tea-room was decorated in Old Hutch style, 
with stalls along the panelled walls. Milly saw, 
with regret, that there was no dancing space. But 
George chose a table near the rear, and she sank 
down with a cozy sigh. 

“ This is charming,” she murmured. “ And I’m 
so tired.” 

As he ordered tea, she leaned back against the 
wall and watched him. He looked up presently and 
met her quizzical gaze. 

“ Well? ” he queried. 

She laughed. “ I suppose you want me to do all 

96 


MILDRED 


the talking, as usual. But I’m not going to. You 
must tell me the news about yourself. What are 
you doing, now? 77 

“ Same old thing , 77 he began laconically. “ In 
business with my dad, again, now the war is over. 

But say- 77 His round face brightened. “ There 

is some news, though—unless you’ve already heard 
it. Been put up at the Iris Club. Pretty good for a 
young chap, eh? 77 

“ Splendid ! 77 Milly was all enthusiasm. She 
clapped her baby hands together. “ The Iris 

Club- ! 77 she stopped. “ Oh, by the way—did 

you see the announcement of Vera Plenny’s engage¬ 
ment? She 7 s marrying an Iris member, Edward 
Storm. I wonder if you know him? 77 

George shook his head. “ You see I 7 m so new 
there. I 7 !l look him up, though. Vera Henny— 
she was one of the 4 Big Three , 7 wasn’t she? 77 

Tea had arrived in blue and white china, a de¬ 
light to Milly, who so seldom ate anything but her 
own cooking. She poured daintily and passed 
Warbridge a cup before replying. 

“ Yes. Vera, and Angela Hay, and I. My, what 
fun we used to have ! 77 

George coughed. “ Angela Day—I- 77 

“ Yes, Angela , 77 Milly chattered. “ Do you ever 
seie her? I never do . 77 

“ Occasionally. She—I believe she’s interested 

in writing- 77 George faltered. “ Sort of a hobby 

with her, I guess. She- 77 


97 







MASQUES 

“ Did you know that she and Malcolm are going 
together? Isn’t that a joke? ” 

His ruddy face stiffened, but his tone was, by 
effort, commonplace. “ I had—heard that. Do 
you suppose lie’s by any chance—serious? ” 

“Mai?” Milly giggled. “Oh, he’s in love with 
someone, always, you know.” 

There was a pause and Milly took another cinna¬ 
mon bun. In the back of her mind the unpleasant 
thought arose that Henry must be home by now, 
and he would be impatient for his dinner. But she 
remembered that Saturday afternoon when he had 
left her alone, and had gone out and bought Liberty 
Bonds with the money that she needed. And—“ Do 
you remember the time you brought me violets, 
George? ” she said. 

“Do I? And the time you wore that pink dress 
with all those funny little things down the sides 
that kept catching in everything? ” 

She laughed delightedly. “How well you re¬ 
member ! ” 

“ I can recall much more than that.” 

With a new enthusiasm he began to recount their 
experiences together in the old days. Milly 
listened, entranced. At last his memory gave out. 
She rose reluctantly to go. 

At the door, as they finally parted, Milly looked 
up at him appealingly. “George, this has been 
lovely. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed anything 
so much. And now—it’s over.” 

98 


MILDRED 


He took her outstretched hand and said seri¬ 
ously : “ It’s meant an awful lot to me, Milly— 
more than you can possibly imagine.” She gave a 
little, half-smothered gasp, and he continued 
quickly: “ Though I don’t see why you shouldn’t 
know, either. Fact is, I’m—Angela—well, I guess 
I’m pretty hard hit this time. And what you said 
about Malcolm not being serious just-” 

Milly withdrew her hand abruptly. “ Oh, I see. 
Well ”—she flashed a brilliant smile—“ good-bye, 
George! ” 

Clicking her heels at each step, she made her way 
across toAvn and vanished in the yawning maw of 
the subway. . . . Viciously she wrenched her 

wedding-ring over the knuckle of her plump finger. 
Back in its place again, and she was back in her 
place. . . . There were angry tears in her eyes. 


3 

For Milly’s pride was unforgivably wounded. 
George Warbridge she had pictured as a dejected 
figure, after her marriage. Poor boy, he had adored 
her so!—that had been her attitude whenever she 
thought of him. And lately she had been thinking 
of him more and more. 

With Henry she was growing to be far from 
satisfied. He was good, and faithful, and true, and 
handsome, but even a dog could be any of these. A 
dog could be quite as interesting. Anyway, what 

99 



MASQUES 

was tlie use of bis being so good-looking, if slie 
couldn’t sIloav bini off to people? 

She was weary of the tiresomeness of her married 
life. Mildred Fahnstock washing and ironing and 
cooking and sewing—being a general slave to 
stupid Henry, who didn’t even try to understand 
the things that she craved! 

Existence without luxury was meaningless to 
her. It had been all very well at first; she hadn’t 
expected it to last. But things had gone on now, 
so long! She was tired of being poor, of living this 
romanceless sort of life, of standing simply as an 
unknown man’s wife, of representing just one of a 
million women similarly situated. 

So, discontent with actualities, she had built a 
second world in her own fancy. A romantic world, 
with Mildred Fahnstock as the central figure. 
Pretty, charming Milly, exquisitely gowned in 
pathetic black, and surrounded, literally hemmed 
in, by—men! They wanted to motor with her, to 
canoe with her, to comfort her. But she waved 
them away. Always, on the outer rim of the crowd, 
there stood a figure. It was George. 

All these years he had waited for her, and now 
that she was widowed a new hope had sprung 
within him. 

“ Dearest—I didn’t know that you cared so 
much”—(she could imagine her own voice liquid 
and sweet). “I’ll try to make up to you all that 

I’ve kept from you in the past-” 

100 



MILDRED 


Bang! And the baby liad tumbled off a chair 
and she must pick him up and rock him until he 
finally stopped those blood-curdling howls. . . . 

That afternoon on Fifth Avenue, then, she had 
been primed for adventure. George had stepped 
into the picture at the psychological moment. 
George, who had always adored her, who had been 
waiting all these years for the breath-space of a 
single minute with her. 

Eagerly she had caught at romance, too eagerly. 
If she had let him go she needn’t have known the 
faithlessness of man. She would have always be¬ 
lieved in George, and in his love for her. But now 
she knew him as he was: fickle, and utterly un¬ 
worthy. She had been wasting her precious world 
of dreams, while he was flirting with Angela Day— 
thinking himself in love with her. Mildred 
clenched her plump fists. George Warbridge didn’t 
even know what love was. She hated him. 


4 

Henry called out to her good-naturedly as she 
came in: “I thought you’d left me for good. Did 
you bring any food with you? ” 

Milly entered the tiny parlor and flung off her 
hat on the table. “ If you want any food, you can 
get it,” she snapped. “ I’m tired. Besides, I 
haven’t any money.” She threw herself into a 
chair. 


101 


MASQUES 

u But I thought—why, I gave you your weekly 

allowance only yesterday-” 

“ Well, I’ve been shopping. There are things 
that we must have. You wouldn’t think of kitchen 
utensils and towels and sheets, and all that, would 
you? But we’ve got to have them, just the same. 
And what’s more ”—Milly’s childish voice became 
rasping and hard—“my old friend, Vera Hennv, 
is going to be married, and we have to send her a 
wedding present. So you may as well make up 
your mind to it, I’ve got to have more money! ” 
Henry whistled. “ Vera Henny? . . . You 

never see her. Why must we send her a present? ” 

“ Because I won’t have her know that we’re poor. 
And because she sent us a gift when we got mar¬ 
ried. That vase, over there.” 

She pointed to a piece of cloisonne on the mantel. 
Henry crossed to it and picked it up. As he lifted 
it, something within jingled. He peered inside. 

“ Milly—it’s money! ” 

She looked at him, at first frightened. Then her 
expression became sulky. “ I know it is. You 
don’t give me anything, so Mother helped me out a 
little. I even had to draw out some of the baby’s 
money—you’re so stingy! ” 

He said nothing for a moment. When his voice 
finally came it was shaky. “ You—you’ve been de¬ 
ceiving me again. Taking money once more from 
your family when I forbade it. You—you’ve taken 

the baby’s money—you—you-” 

102 




MILDRED 

His dull face was the finer for its stern pallor. 
Milly shrank back. 

“ I didn’t do anything. The baby will have all 
the money he wants some day, you know that. He 
needs things now. It was best for me to spend it 
for him. Don’t you see? ” 

“ Yes, I see perfectly.” He turned abruptly and 
went out of the room. 

Milly looked about, bewildered. 

Surely she hadn’t done anything very bad! A 
few white lies—just little ones—and when she had 
drawn from Harry’s savings accounts she had spent 
only a small part for herself. Henry was so un¬ 
reasonable! And nobody loved her—not even 
Henry! 

When he returned presently, he found her weep¬ 
ing. She looked up at him through her tears. 
“ Henry—I didn’t mean to do anything—I just had 
to have—the money. I didn’t know-” 

He went over to her and wearily sank down on 
the arm of her chair. “ I don’t suppose you did,” 
he said sadly. “ I don’t suppose you’ll ever know. 
That’s just the trouble. It’s—it’s so hopeless.” 

She raised her face to his and caught his arm in 
her two hands. “ Then you’re not angry? Say 
you’re not angry! ” 

He bent and kissed one pink cheek absently. 
“ jSTo,” he sighed. “ I’m not angry. What would be 
the use? ” 

“ And—and I must have money for Vera’s gift— 

103 




MASQUES 

especially if you w T on’t let me take anything from 

Mother. Do you think you could-? You see 

you put so much into the Liberty Loan and every¬ 
thing -” 

“ H’mmm. ... I did do that much for the 
war.” His tone was bitter. He added: “ Yes, Lll 
try to see if I can’t give you more. I’ll 
try. . . 

Milly jumped up, and smiled through her tears. 
At least she had won her point. 

“ Henry, won’t you go out and get something for 
us to eat? I’m hungry, too, now.” 

And, singing softly, she began to set the table. 

5 > 

A conversation that happened in Henry’s mind 
as he trudged to the delicatessen three blocks 
away: 

“ Look here, Milly darling. We’ve started all 
wrong, you and I. We’ve tried to love each other 
without understanding each other, and it can’t be 
done.” 

“ Yes, Henry dear.” 

“ You see, we’ve been pulling in different direc¬ 
tions ever since we’ve been married. I’m all for 
looking into the future and—and building a strong 
foundation. You—well, you like to have a good 
time as you jog along. I don’t blame you. Maybe 
I’ve been too strict.” 

“ Oh, no, dear! ” 


104 




MILDRED 


“ Yes, maybe I have. Of course it’s the Liberty 
Bonds that keep us so tight right now. But I'll 
get those paid up before long, and then I was think¬ 
ing -” 

“ What, Henry? ” 

“Just that we might begin looking for a little 
apartment down-town somewhere. And I was 
thinking-” 

But at this point Henry’s mouth drew into a 
grim line. Thinking. That was all that he could 
afford to do, really—think of looking at an apart¬ 
ment, think of making Mildred happier. 

Frowning, he entered the delicatessen store. 
Perhaps he could get some special treat for Milly, 
just for to-night. 

A gleaming mound of lobster salad rose in un¬ 
touched splendor beneath the glass case. 

“ How much is that, please? ” 

“ A dollar and a half a pound.” 

Henry swallowed hard. “ Give me a half—a 
pound,” he faltered. 

What did it matter if he went without his lunch 
next day? Milly would have all the lobster salad 
she could eat. Joyfully Henry hastened home to 
her. 




105 




CHAPTER V 


1 

A few months after their encounter on Fifth 
Avenue Mildred received a note from George War- 
bridge : 

“ Won’t you meet me for tea again? Most im¬ 
portant to me. I need you pretty badly.” 

So, George had come to his senses once more. 
Mildred was aglow with romantic expectations. 
She must be discreet, and certainly she had no 
intention of letting the affair go beyond proper 
bounds, but it would be thrilling to have a secret 
appointment with George to go to tea, say, once a 
week. It was so sort of clandestine. She wrote 
him that she would meet him at the same place 
where they had gone before, and at four-thirty the 
following day she found him awaiting her in one 
of the stalls at the side of the room. 

She was surprised at his appearance. That 
dapper look of his was lacking. He wasn’t untidy, 
but his grooming showed a want of care. 

“ Milly—I’m so glad you came.” He seated him¬ 
self beside her, his bead-like eyes blinking fast. “ I 
needed you awfully.” 

Mildred’s hand patted the blonde curls at her 

106 


MILDRED 

ears. “ Oh, George! Am I—am I as important to 
you as that? ” 

He nodded. “ You’re all I’ve got. I haven’t any 
sisters, or a mother. And I don’t know—you kind 
of need a woman sometimes. Men aren’t interested 
in another fellow’s troubles.” 

George had come to his senses with a vengeance! 
Mildred was somewhat flustrated by the suddenness 
of the change. But she smiled sweetly. 

u It makes me very happy to know that I’m of 
some use to my friends, particularly you, George.” 

Wasn’t this just like the second act of a play? 
A clever young married woman being made violent 
love to by an old suitor. Milly was having a beau¬ 
tiful time. 

Meanwhile George had started to reply, but he 
stopped as a waiter came for their order. 

“ Tea and French pastry,”—Milly’s manner was 
charmingly childlike. “ And I want some of those 
cakes with the strawberry things on top.” 

“ Just tea for me,” George added absently. 

The waiter withdrew. Milly looked toward 
Warbridge expectantly. “ You were going to 
say? ” she prompted. 

“ I—I-” Words came to George Warbridge 

with unmitigated reluctance. “Well, I might as 
well tell you the whole thing—at once. It’s this— 
Angela’s thrown me over.” 

Milly’s eyes widened, then narrowed again, and 
her soft mouth drew down at the corners, 

107 



MASQUES 

If this was why he had asked her to tea! The 
idea of her wasting her time listening to that horrid 
George tell about his nonsensical love-making! 
Angela had “thrown him over,” had she? Well, 
Milly didn’t wonder. Anyone would do the same; 
he had no sense of fitness. 

But George continued: “ The funny thing of it is 
that she doesn’t seem to be going with Malcolm any 
longer either. So it isn’t that lie’s—cut me out. I 
guess it’s just that she hasn’t any use for me—at 
all.” 

Milly shrugged. “ Really, George, I’m afraid I 
can’t be of any help to you. I never see Angela, 
you know. I haven’t the least idea-” 

“ Yes, but you’re a girl,” he interrupted. “ You 
ought to know why it is that other girls do things. 

How their minds work, I mean. Of course-” he 

slowly shook his stodgy head. “ Of course I know 
I haven’t any show with Angela—I’ve given up all 
hope of that. I only sort of kidded myself along 
anyway—I didn’t really think she’d have me. But 
—what I want to know is—why won’t she even see 
me? We used to be friends, at least! ” 

The scorn in Milly’s baby eyes was scorching, if 
George had bothered to look in them. “ Probably 
you get on her nerves. Maybe she doesn’t like the 
way you sit with your feet toed-in. Or maybe she 
hates the way you blink your eyes.” 

“ Good Lord! ” George was meekly shocked. 
“ Do I do those things? ” 

10 $ 





MILDRED 


Milly lauglied unpleasantly. “ I should say you 
do. And stop fiddling with that fork! Now you’re 
getting on my nerves. 7 ’ 

George attempted a smile. “ Your voice has the 
same sound it had on that night when you turned 
me out of your house and threw my flowers after 
me. Do you remember that? Huh. . . . I’m 

certainly popular with the female sex . 77 

He gave his cigarette a vicious tap and struck a 
light. Neither spoke as the waiter arranged the 
tea things. But when they were alone again 
George turned to Mildred. 

“You know I didn’t get you here entirely to 
listen to my selfish troubles . 77 

“No?” Milly had ceased to be interested in 
George or his affairs to the smallest degree; her 
complete attention w^as focussed on the strawberry 
cakes. 

“ No.” 

He reached beneath his overcoat, which he had 
thrown on the seat beside him, and he drew forth 
a box. 

“ I—I got this thing in Paris when I was on 
leave one day. I thought maybe I could give it to 
Angela—sometime. Now r I know I can’t. Per¬ 
haps you’d like to have it. The thing’s no good to 
me.” 

Mildred’s interest had been slightly caught. She 
took the box and opened it. She gasped. 

“ George!—For me? ” 


109 


MASQUES 

Within lay the most exquisite of bead bags. 
Delicate pastel shades, infinitesimal beads, a lus¬ 
trous design of fleurs-de-lis and mignonettes. Milly 
lifted it tenderly by its slender gold-linked chain. 

“ Oh—how wonderful! And how darling of 
you! ” 

“ I thought,” George said, “ I thought that the 
light blue, in there, would look so kind of pretty 
with Angela’s hair. . . 

Milly didn’t hear him. Her face was flushed a 
delightful pink. “ I simply love it! It will be just 
the thing for Vera’s wedding—1 got the invitation 
yesterday. And it will set off any costume! Oh, 
you dear old thing—how did you ever happen to 
think of me-? ” 

The tea that afternoon was a surprising success, 
considering its rather dubious beginning. Milly, 
indeed, proved so sympathetic that George told her 
the history of his entire romantic disappointment. 
She nearly wept for him. . . . Milly was such 

a friendly little thing. 


2 

And Mildred intended to go to Vera’s wedding 
until almost the last moment, when she made a 
horrible discovery. Her one and only suitable 
gown gave out completely so that to repair it would 
have taken more material than there was left in the 
original. 

The next day, when Mrs. Fahnstock came to pay 

110 



MILDRED 

her weekly call, she found Mildred in a decidedly 
morose mood. 

“ It doesn’t do any good, my telling you my 
troubles,” Milly sighed. “ Now that Henry won’t 
let me take any money from you, it just means that 
I’ve got to go on, plodding along without any hope 
from anyone.” 

Mildred hadn’t imparted the news of the bead 
bag to either her mother or to Henry. They 
wouldn’t understand, and Henry would probably 
try to make her give it back. 

Mrs. Fahnstock clucked with her tongue at 
Milly’s complaint, and handed her daughter a book. 
“ See, dear, what I’ve brought you. It’s by Angela 
Day—would you ever think it? I believe it’s hav¬ 
ing quite a sale.” 

Milly raised her eyebrows and glanced at the 
cover of the book before laying it aside. “ It seems 
so queer,” she said, reverting to the recitation of 
her grievances, “that I, who used to have every¬ 
thing, should be forced to live in poverty like this. 
Why, Mother, I haven’t a thing—not a decent thing 
to wear! ” 

Mrs. Fahnstock yawned delicately, with three 
jewelled fingers over her reddened lips. It bored 
her beyond words to hear Milly’s woes so contin¬ 
ually recounted. As a mother she had always done 
and was still doing the best that she could for 
Milly. She conceded the point, nevertheless, that 
it was tragic to be without an ample wardrobe. 

Ill 


MASQUES 

Even the thought of wearing tan gloves with gray 
shoes because one couldn’t afford to have them 
match, made her shudder. 

“ I used to think,” Milly continued dolefully, 
“ that Henry was going to amount to something 
and that we’d be rich. Now I doubt even that. 
Do you know what he wanted to do? . . . 

When that man, Stevenson, in his office, came back 
from the war Henry wanted to give him his former 
place and return to the old wage scale. I just had 
to fight him to keep him from doing that. He has 
a sort of foolish pride that would get us all into 
still more trouble if it weren’t for me. Men are 
so selfish! ” 

Once more Mrs. Fahnstock attempted to change 
the subject. “ I wish you’d read Angela’s book, 
Milly,” she said lightly. “ It’s rather interesting, 
though I’m sure I don’t see the point of it. The 
advertisements say it’s a satire, and I thought that 
meant that it was going to be funny. But it’s quite 
serious—it’s about people a great deal like us— 
an average American family of-” 

“ But Mother ”—Milly broke in—“ Angela and 
Malcolm—I hear they’re-” 

Mrs. Fahnstock nodded. “ Yes. That was 
broken off long ago. I’m glad, though Mai was 
fearfully upset.” 

“ Strange,” Milly mused, “ strange what Mal¬ 
colm could have seen in Angela. I never thought 
she was pretty, did you? Of course she dressed 

112 




MILDRED 


well. . . ” Her voice trailed off mournfully at 

the thought of clothes. 

Not until then did Mrs. Fahnstock catch the drift 
of Milly’s conversation. Quite suddenly she under¬ 
stood. “ I suppose—I suppose it would be different 
if you received a present that wasn’t in cash, from 
me, wouldn’t it, dear? I never thought—but that 
would make a difference, wouldn’t it? ” 

Milly gave her a wistful smile. “ Oh, Mummy— 
you’re so good! ” she murmured. . . . 

Her reward came a few days later in the shape 
of an entire costume. A gown from Mine. Dar- 
quenne’s, shoes from Frederick’s—none of her 
favorite shops had been forgotten. And on the 
same day the invitation to the fifth-year reunion 
of her class at The Shelborough School arrived. 
Milly was radiant. 


o 

fj 

But to Milly’s disgust and fury, Henry refused 
to allow her to keep the things. 

“ You wouldn’t be so mean,” she begged. “ I’ve 
nothing to wear and my five-yearly reunion is two 
weeks off. I’ve looked forward to it all these years, 
and I can’t go unless I look right—you’ve no idea 
how critical girls are! And you won’t make me 
send the things back, will you? You couldn’t! ” 

The argument took place one evening; the boxes 
had arrived late that afternoon. 

Henry looked up over the paper that he was 

113 


MASQUES 

pretending to read. “ I can and I will, so you may 
as well make the best of it. I’m tired of having 
you take charity from the Fahnstock family. It's 
got to stop.” 

Milly pouted sulkily. . . . If Henry thought 

that she was going to obey, he was very much mis¬ 
taken. She wanted those clothes more than any¬ 
thing on earth; she had no intention of giving them 
up. 

Although it was nearly eight o’clock, the baby, 
Harry, sat on the floor at Henry’s feet, playing 
with a piece of string. He had grown into a plump 
youngster, much resembling his mother both in ap¬ 
pearance and disposition. Three years’ practice 
had made his tear glands as responsive to his dis¬ 
pleasure as an automatic sprinkler to heat. 

“ Da-da play wiv Harry,” he invited, lassoing one 
of his father’s feet with his string. “ Play horsie! ” 

Henry bent over and patted the child’s head. 
“ Good old Harry. Want me to be a horse, 
do you? Say, Milly, oughtn’t this kid to be in 
bed? ” 

The baby let out a whimper at the mention of 
bed, and Milly turned her back without a word. 
She had decided to discipline Henry by refusing to 
speak to him until he gave in to her wishes. 

“Well,” Henry said cheerfully, picking up the 
child, “we’ll have just a little game before we go 
to bed, eh? What shall we play? Or I’ll tell you a 
stoi*y while you sit on my lap. That would be 

114 


MILDRED 


better.” He cleared his throat. “Er—ah—once 
there was a little boy-” 

“ Do’ wannaaa ’tory! ” 

The baby reached over to the table beside Tadd’s 
chair and pulled on the spread. The electric lamp 
in the center swayed, but Henry caught and 
steadied it. 

“No! No! Mustn’t do that!” 

It was with difficulty that Mildred maintained 
her silence. Henry ought to know that it was 
wrong to say “ mustn’t ” to the baby. Milly had 
read somewhere that too many commands stunted 
the psychological growth, or something. One 
should lead a child gently, taking care to give full 
sway to the small personality. 

“ Ow—eeee!” Harry bawled. He wriggled and 
kicked viciously against his father’s restraining 
hold. “ I—da—wannaaaa! ” 

Just on general principles he screamed; he didn’t 
know what he wanted or what he didn’t want. Usu¬ 
ally this sort of attitude brought relief in the form 
of candy or a lump of sugar. 

But Henry set him down abruptly. “You’re a 
bad boy,” he declared. “ Daddy won’t play with a 
bad boy like you.” 

He picked up his newspaper and again pretended 
to read. The baby’s yell dwindled to short, chok¬ 
ing sobs, then quiet. The silence should have 
served as a warning. 

There was a crash, and the lamp was on the floor, 

115 



MASQUES 

one of the bulbs smashed, and Harry gleefully wav¬ 
ing the spread. 

“ Oh, he’s cut! ” Milly shrieked. 

“ He’s not cut at all—but he’s a bad, disobedient 
child and he’s going to be punished.” Henry took 
the boy’s hands in his own. “ This is the naughty 
part. This is the part to be punished.” He gave 
the small hands two sharp slaps. 

“ Ow—eeee! Ooooooh! ” The child’s voice rose 
in shrill wails. Angry tears streamed down his 
round face. 

Milly rushed to him, flung her arms about him, 
her eyes blazing. “ There, there! Blessed dar¬ 
ling ! ” And to Henry: “ You—you brute! Don’t 
you ever dare touch my child again—don’t you 
dare! ” 

She lifted the baby in her arms and carried him 
out to the bedroom, where she laid him in his crib. 
“ Don’t cry, precious—don’t! Mother’ll give you a 
great big box of chocolates! There! ” 

But while she undressed the whimpering child 
an old young man sat in the tiny parlor with his 
fingers in his ears. 


4 

Milly returned later and without a word went 
over to the corner of the room, where reposed the 
boxes of garments that Mrs. Fahnstock had sent. 
The baby was at last quiet, evidently asleep. 

116 


MILDRED 


Henry glanced up as slie entered, and Ms eyes 
followed her movements wearily. “ I’m sorry that 
you thought I was cruel,” he began. “ Harry must 
be taught to obey—he must! ” 

She gave him a look that was half scorn and half 
reproach and made no answer. 

“ I didn’t really hurt him, you know, dear.” 

“No, you didn’t!” She swimg about. “A 
thing like that may make him into a nervous man. 
His—Unconscious will retain that memory—it 
may even make him a failure in life! ” 

“ Unconscious—bosh! ” 

Milly stiffened, then suddenly her baby eyes filled 

with tears. “Oh, Henry! How can you-? 

You’re so—brutal! ” 

He rose and walked around the table, then over 
to where she stood. “ I—I don’t know what’s 
the matter with me, Milly. I try to make you 
happy—honestly. We—we just don’t seem to— 
fit.” 

They stood there silently a moment, Milly sniffing 
quietly and wiping her eyes, Henry with his head 
bent and a frown puckering his fine, broad fore¬ 
head. Finally he shrugged, and reaching out, 
touched her shoulder gently. 

“ Milly—I’ll do anything you like. . . . I’m 

sorry. . . 

She drew away. “P-p-promise me that you’ll 
never whip Harry again! ” 

He frowned. “ I promise.” 

117 



MASQUES 

“ And that you’ll let me keep the—the clothes 
Mother sent.” 

“ Now, Milly, I can’t. I-” 

She sank down in a chair and gave herself up to 
her weeping. “ I haven’t anything. ... I 
want to go to the reunion . . . you won’t let 

me. . . . Angela will have nice clothes—so 
will Vera . . . she married a rich man! ” 

He threw up his hands in a gesture of de¬ 
spair. “ All right. Go ahead. Do anything you 
like! ” 

Milly jumped up in childlike delight, the tears 
still wet on her cheeks. She ran for the boxes, and 
gathering them up, started, laden with them, to¬ 
ward the door. “ I’ll try them on! ” she cried. 
“ Won’t that be fun? I’ll see how they look! ” 


5 

From the next room he could hear the rustle of 
silk, the swish of tissue. 

Why was it that he could never stand out against 
her for what he thought was right? Why did her 
tears, her soft, appealing prettiness break down his 
strongest resolutions? 

“ If only I weren’t so reasonable! ” he murmured. 
“If only I didn’t get her angle so clearly—if I 
weren’t so much in sympathy with her! ” 

That, he decided, had been their source of trou¬ 
ble from the first. He had felt so deeply the things 

11 $ 



MILDRED 


of which he was depriving her. She had never de¬ 
sired what wouldn’t, by rights, have been hers 
except for him; he had wanted so desperately to 
make those things up to her. And he hadn’t been 
able. 

Then, the idea had occurred to him occasionally: 
what, after all, had she brought to him? He had 
eloped with her to take her away from mental un¬ 
happiness ; his intention, at least, had been unself¬ 
ish. But Milly—Milly’s attitude had been one of 
complete egotism with him, always. Henry some¬ 
times felt that in her life he figured much in the 
light of a faithful domestic animal, only to be 
tolerated and to be made use of. 

He disliked these thoughts and avoided them, but 
they recurred. They came to him now, more force¬ 
fully than ever, and to escape them he rose and 
went direct to Milly. 

She was standing before her mirror dressed in 
her new finery, while she gazed with naive delight 
at her own image. But at the sound of Henry’s 
step in the doorway she started, and she flung 
something hurriedly into a bureau drawer, turning 
to meet him. 

Probably, if she had been quite calm, if she had 
betrayed no guilt in her actions, he would never 
have noticed. She might have left the bead bag on 
her arm in full sight, and Henry wouldn’t have 
been the wiser. But as it was, her quick flush 
made him suspicious. 


119 


MASQUES 

He crossed to tlie bureau and pushing her aside, 
opened the drawer and pulled out the bag. 

His face darkened. “ Your mother didn't send 
this. Where did it come from? ” 

“ Oh, Henry, 1 just—I-” 

“Where did it come from?” 

His voice was terrible. All the exasperation of 
the last four years was in it. . . . If she was 

tricking him in this way, beside everything else! 

She trembled slightly. “ Ill—Ill tell you the 
whole truth, Henry, if you only won’t frighten me 
so. It’s nothing so very bad — 


77 


77 


“ You’d better tell the truth! If you don’t 
“ But—but I will! It’s just that—George War- 
bridge — 


77 


“ George Warbridge! ” Henry’s voice cracked. 
“ Who the devil is he? ” 

“ He—he’s just an old friend! And you see he 
bought this for Angela Hay and she-” 

“Just a minute.” The hand in which Henry 
held the bag shook. “ Just tell me one thing: did 
that man give you this bag? ” 

“ Y-y-yes.” 

Henry’s gray eyes seemed to turn dark and for¬ 
bidding. He said nothing, and his silence terrified 
Hilly. 

“ 1—I can explain—really, I can! ” she faltered 
piteously. - 

“Explain?” He took the bag and slammed it 
on the bureau. “ Of course you can explain—you 

120 







MILDRED 


little fool! You can explain anything—but bow do 
I know whether you’re lying or not? ” 

His head was beating with heavy throbs. There 
wasn’t enough air in the room. His hands wanted 
to take Milly and hurt her, hurt her for all the 
pain that she had given him. 

“ You can go home! ” he blurted. “ I don’t want 
you in my house. You’re always threatening to go 
home. Well, go! ” 

There was something splendid in his anger. 
Milly didn’t suppose that he had it in him. Fright¬ 
ened as she was, her wide eyes took in the line 
whiteness of his face, the strength of his clenched 
fists. She moved toward him fearfully. 

“ Henry—on my word of honor—can’t you be¬ 
lieve me—I love you. ... I want to stay with 
you! ” 

He turned away. “ I’m through. I-” 

She followed him, put her soft, timid hand on his 
arm. “ Henry, darling—please! ” Her voice 
broke, the inevitable tears coursed down her round 
cheeks. “ I’m so—unhappy! ” 

Somehow Henry was standing beside a lake in 
the moonlight and a girl was laughing—and teach¬ 
ing him how to kiss her. 

He swung about and caught her in his arms with 
a fierce, violent sort of tenderness. 

“ Milly—you can stay. I want you. But that 
damned bag is going back— and you’re going to do 
ivliat I say! ” 


121 



MASQUES 

Wasn’t Henry wonderful? Mildred hoped tliat 
he would always be like this. He frightened her 
terribly, but for the first time in all her life, she 
loved him. 


122 


BOOK II 


VERA 









CHAPTER I 


1 

“ Miss Vera Henny . . . telegram for Miss 
Henny!” 

A girl in chair seventeen raised indolent eyes. 
“ I'm Miss Hennv.” 

Turning back toward the window, she slit the 
yellow envelope with one tapering index finger. 

Will meet you at station with new auto. 
Both well. Kisses. 

Ma. 

The girl sighed, a faint flush of displeasure tint¬ 
ing her high-boned cheeks. How like her mother 
that telegram was! Utterly unnecessary and un¬ 
reasonably annoying. Mrs. Henny never stopped 
to think of the effect of her impulsive affectionate¬ 
ness. It had cost Vera many a humiliating mo¬ 
ment. Kow, for instance, she was advertised to the 
entire car as u Miss Henny.” She had always de¬ 
tested the name, “ Henny.” 

Kot that it wasn’t better than her own name. 
Her mother, in the dim past when Vera was a baby, 
had been a Mrs. Spiegelschultz, and her daughter 
had chosen the lesser of two evils when she had 
taken the second husband’s more euphonic sur¬ 
name. 


125 


MASQUES 

A man in the chair next hers was peering over 
his newspaper at her. Yera met his eyes scorn¬ 
fully, then turned her chair still farther toward 
the window. Strange men were always staring at 
her; it was rather a bore to be so unintentionally 
conspicuous. Still, she didn’t wish that she were 
ugly. That arrogant beauty of hers, that power of 
instantly arresting public attention, she appre¬ 
ciated fully. Some day those things would stand 
her in good stead as a background for her dramatic 
ability. 

After all, she would only be in Siam for the sum¬ 
mer; she planned to return to New York in the 
fall to prepare herself to be an actress. Siam she 
despised. Siam, with two second-rate moving-pic¬ 
ture houses for entertainment, with the customary 
feud between the Methodist and Protestant Episco¬ 
pal churches for annual excitement: it was Willis 
Henny’s home town; Yera was completely out of 
her sphere there. 

For both Yera and her mother were native New 
Yorkers. Mrs. Henny had kept a rooming house on 
East Eighty-fourth Street after the death of her 
first husband, and Willis Henny had been one of 
her guests. He had come East with all the cash 
he possessed for his first vacation in ten years, and 
he returned to Siam a few months later with a new 
wife and a fortune that he had won on a margin. 

Mrs. Henny’s transplanting had been a success. 
Hers was essentially a small-town nature. New 

126 


VERA 


York, for all that it had reared her, was too re¬ 
served, too casual a parent to sufficiently satisfy 
her friendly soul. Perhaps, in the first place, she 
had opened her metropolitan house to guests as a 
means of livelihood simply because she felt the need 
of the community spirit and vaguely missed it. She 
thrived, at any rate, upon the intimacies of Siam. 
She was a neighbor par excellence , a respected and 
important member of the township. And to her 
credit, in spite of that importance and in spite of 
her sudden acquisition of wealth, she never 
strutted. She was unaffectedly proud of her opu¬ 
lence, as a child is proud of a new toy. But she 
didn’t look down upon other people because, un¬ 
like her, they had no toys. 

But with Vera it was different. By a natural 
cleverness of observation and of adaptability, she 
had attained a certain social polish that was in¬ 
stinctive among her schoolmates. She watched 
them eat; she saw them meeting people; she copied 
their clothes. She even went so far in her minute 
emulation that she became too thoughtfully correct, 
too faultless in the elegancies. Toward both her 
mother and Mr. Henny she felt rather a contempt, 
rather a superiority. And she was as scornful to¬ 
ward Siam as she was toward that quarter of New 
York where she had so ignominiously passed the 
first ten years of her life. It was a case of out¬ 
growing one’s setting. 

With innumerable stops, and with halting respi- 

127 


MASQUES 

ration, the train crawled along the one-track line be¬ 
tween Delinar Junction and Siam. Vera glanced 
at the time-table, then at her wrist-watch. Delinar, 
Pond Point, Ivelton,—finally, Siam. 

Her mother was waiting at the station and a line 
of farm-hands and village loiterers eyed the girl 
from the background. Mrs. Willis Henny, wife of 
the town’s only millionaire, meeting her daughter, 
who had been educated back East. 

“Well, Verer! Here y’ are! Ain’t this just 
fine? ” Mrs. Henny wrapped Vera in her ample 
arms, implanted an audible kiss on her unwilling 
cheek. “ C’mon, dearie! The new car’s over here. 
It’s a beauty! Just wait till you see! ” 

Vera followed, her head bent, a quick redness 
dyeing her neck and face. Her mother was worse 
than she remembered: fatter, bigger, louder, more 
flamboyant. Mrs. Henny never merely spoke; she 
always exclaimed. She was a mammoth mass of 
futile enthusiasm. 

She hoisted herself into the tonneau of an elec¬ 
tric blue limousine that stood drawn up to the plat¬ 
form with a liveried chauffeur. “ Ain’t that lovely, 
Verer? Custom-made, cost more than a Rolls- 
Royce ! Lookit the enamel telephone! ” 

Vera smiled a trifle loftily. She could afford to 
patronize her mother now that they were out of 
the sight of those dreadful townspeople and farm¬ 
ers. “ It looks—it looks exactly like—you. It fits 
your personality.” 


128 



VERA 


“Huh?” Mrs. Henny’s heavy-chinned face was 
puzzled. u Well, I dunno. Didja have a nice trip? 
Whatja have to eat in the dining-car? ” 

“ Oh,—a salad—it doesn’t matter.” 

“ Well-” There was disappointment in the 

mother’s tone. When she wasn’t eating, she liked 
at least to talk about food. Suddenly she bright¬ 
ened. “ I got something you’ll like for your dinner, 
anyways—guess! It’s a shortcake—strawrberry 
shortcake! ” 

Vera turned away without answering toward the 
flat expanses of fields, dry-hot and treeless. The 
heavy car tossed and rocked with ponderous aban¬ 
don on the rough country road. 

“ Ohio—the ugliest state in the Union.” 

“ It suits me even if it is kinda homely,” Mrs. 
Henny declared. “ Course we ain’t here all the 
time, what with Par taking me travelling. Europe 
—there’s a place! I like to see it, but I wouldn’t 
live there if you paid me. Terrible the trouble 
they’re having now, though. War, and that old 
Ivaiser starting a fuss. I was to his palace in 
Berlin and they made you put on carpet-slippers 
before you could walk around his floors. Silly! 1 
guess I’ve got as expensive hardwood floors as can 
be bought and nobody has to go in their stock¬ 
ing-feet around my house! Yes, I was to his 
palace.” 

They were passing a farmhouse. 

“ Hello, Mis’ Turner! How areya? ” 

129 




MASQUES 

Mrs. Henny waved a giant liand to a lean woman 
in calico who stood in the doorway. 

“ Fancy living in a place like that! ” 

Mrs. Henny shrugged. “ Oh, it ? s not so bad. 
Mis’ Turner’s a real nice little woman. . . . 

There! You can see our house at the next turn— 
remember? ” 

Vera shut her eyes and leaned back. She didn’t 
want to see the house, that hideous, ornate two 
stories of stucco and marble. She wanted, just 
for a moment, to make herself believe that she 
was coming home to a place like that of the Fahn- 
stocks at Quogue. A place that was luxurious 
and yet that didn’t cry out its costliness at first 
glance. 

Her stepfather had been unduly generous to her. 
Yet she had always left the details of her family 
life to the imagination of her friends; she doubted 
if they even knew whether or not she had parents 
at all. She had thrown out casual hints as to the 
extent of the Henny estate, but she had been careful 
not to have any of the Shelborough girls meet Mr. 
and Mrs. Henny when they passed through town. 
She was so bitterly ashamed of them, and of her 
home. 

“ What’s the matter with you, Verer! Have you 
gone to sleep? Look, here’s Par! ” 

The motor drew up noiselessly under the elabo¬ 
rate porte-cochere. A small, spare man with eyes 
that were kind, yet shrewd, and rusty gray hair, 

130 


VERA 

opened the door of the limousine, and helped Vera 
out. 

“ Hello, girlie! ” He pecked at her cheek. 
“ Glad to see yuh. Welcome home!” 

Her stepfather. . . . Vera noted his costume 

with a mental groan: disreputable boots and trou¬ 
sers, a plaid shirt with lavender suspenders. He 
wore no coat. 

It was as if he had stopped his work about the 
place for a few moments in order to greet her, as 
no doubt he had. His servants were a pleasant 
novelty to him, they had only recently been in¬ 
stalled; the extra faces in the house enlivened the 
atmosphere, he thought. “ It got kinda lonely with 
just Ma and me,” he would explain. But both he 
and Vera’s mother actually preferred to wait upon 
themselves. There were many duties that should 
have been delegated to their household staff, to 
which they absurdly clung. 

He mopped the perspiration from his head with 
a red cotton handkerchief. 66 Tom, you better take 
the car around to the barn.” He addressed the 
chauffeur. “We won’t want her again until after 
dinner.” Turning to Vera: “Some flivver, eh? 
Watch her go! Ain’t she silent? That’s Tom Sut¬ 
ton driving her—remember Tom Sutton? Don’t he 
look class in that rig? Well, let’s go in.” 

He swung wide the door and Vera entered the 
hallway. Myriads of paintings huddled together on 
the walls in wide gilt frames seemed to fly at her 

131 


MASQUES 

from every direction. Bearskin rugs, a “white 
marble Lion of Lucerne, Louis Quinze divans and 
chairs—that foyer! There was too much, too fear¬ 
fully much of everything. 

Her stepfather’s nasal voice continued conver¬ 
sationally: “ Ma, don’t Vera look fine? Wait till 
she sees that shortcake, eh, Ma? ” And to Yera: 
“Did ye have a nice trip? Pretty hot, though, I 
guess. . . . What did ye have to eat in the 

dining-car? ” 

She turned and gave him a look of utter disdain, 
then without bothering to reply she started up the 
stairs to her room. 


2 

She took off her severely tailored hat and the 
coat of her travelling suit and laid them on the bed. 
Here in her own room things were in good taste, 
simple, eminently nice, highly lacking in distinc¬ 
tion. 

Crossing to the dressing-table, she began to let 
down her long, dark hair, to comb out its straight 
glistening skeins. Her movements were studiedly 
graceful; she never forgot for a moment the part 
that she was playing. 

“ Dinner, Verer,—dinner! ” 

Her mother’s loud voice made her shudder. 

“ All right. I’m coming.” 

She twisted her hair in a high knot, gave a satis- 

132 


VERA 


fled glance at tlie reflection in the mirror and went 
down-stairs, a splendid, haughty Juno. 

Mr. Henny was already seated at the table when 
she entered the dining-room. 

“ Where’s Mother? ” 

“ She’s out in the kitchen with Mis’ Sutton. 
Tom’s ma comes in and cooks for us, y’ know. Lit¬ 
tle Edna’s the up-stairs girl—we got the whole 
darned family working for us. Mce folks, and they 
need the money. Sit down, girlie—Ma’ll be in in 
a minute.” 

He made an odd picture against the panelled 
mahogany w T alls at the head of the long banquet 
table that had been laid for three places at one end. 

Vera seated herself. “ Don’t you—don’t you— 
wear your coat at dinner? It’s quite cool in 
here.” 

He leaned back, and putting a thumb under each 
suspender, snapped them smartly against his chest. 
“ Little old shirt’s good enough for me,” he an¬ 
swered affably. 

She turned away. A dull red flooded her face as 
she thought of Shelborough and of the other girls. 
If they could see her now! Mrs. Henny, exploding 
through the kitchen swing-door with a steaming 
platter, was the Anal touch to Vera’s mortification. 

“ Mother, isn’t there someone who can do that 
for you—haven’t you servants? ” 

“ Course I have! But I wanted to see that every¬ 
thing was right for you, Verer.” Mrs. Henny laid 

133 


MASQUES 

the platter on the table and settled herself heavily 
in her chair. “ There, I hope it’s all right. The 
sweet potatoes are browned just nice, and the baked 
ham has a cinnamon sauce w T e never tried before. 
I hopeya’ll like it! ” 

There was a profound silence while Willis Henny 
sharpened his stag-horn handled carving-knife. As 
he started to slice the meat, Mrs. Henny broke out: 
“ Now, Par, cut it thin! I want mine for a san- 
widge! ” 

“Hold on, now, Ma—who’s carving this ani¬ 
mal? ” He turned to Vera. “ Your ma just about 
tells me how to breathe,” he laughed. 

Vera raised her perfect brows. “ It matters so 
little—all this. Can’t we talk about something be¬ 
side food? ” 

Mr. Henny’s shrewd eyes showed dismay, then he 
laughed again. “ Guess she needs her dinner, eh, 
Ma? Crosser’n two sticks! ” 

Again a silence as the parents commenced to eat. 
A verbal silence, broken by the clatter of eager 
knives and forks against the dishes. Yera glanced 
from Willis Henny to her mother, then lowered her 
eyes to her own untouched plate. 

“Why, Verer! Don’tcha like your dinner?” 
Mrs. Henny paused with a full fork of potato bal¬ 
anced half-way to her mouth. 

“Yes, yes. Of course. I was just—thinking.” 
Vera began to eat mechanically. 

“ Ha! ” Willis Henny burst out. “ Ha! Think- 

134 



VERA 


ing, is it? Guess this one’s in love, Ma. That’s 
Iioav they act, you know. Ha, ha, ha-” 

He broke off, suddenly quieted by a glare of con¬ 
tempt from Vera. Once more the conversation ex¬ 
pired, only to be revived by Mrs. Henny’s dramatic 
exit and reentrance Avitli the shortcake. 

Her broad, pallid face Avas rapt with the joy of 
dedication as she laid the plate before Vera; she 
Avas a gigantic Vestal offering sacrificial fruits to 
her goddess. 

“ There, now, Verer—just help yourself! ” 

But Vera shook her head coldly. “ I’m sorry— 
I don’t care for that sort of thing. You’ll have to 
excuse me.” She rose. “ Since I’ve finished, I 
think I’ll go up and unpack.” 

It was an impossible situation. Perhaps, after 
a time, she Avould groAV accustomed to her mother 
and her stepfather, and their ordinary, common 
eccentricities. But at present they irritated her 
almost unbearably. The only thing for her to do in 
order to keep peace, was to leave them to them¬ 
selves as much as possible. At any rate, she Avas 
perfect !} 7 good company for herself, there A\ r as al¬ 
ways that. 

Outside, in the hallway, she heard her mother's 
strident tone: “ But Par—she used to like it! ” 
Then the voice broke and something very like a sob 
reached Vera’s uninterested ears. 

“ Oh, bother! Such a fuss over nothing! ” she 
muttered. 


135 



MASQUES 

And an annoyed frown lodged itself between ber 
brows as slie once more climbed the stairs to ber 
own room. 


3 

Willis Henny rose from tbe table and going to 
bis wife, put one knobby band tenderly on ber large, 
heaving back. 

“ There, now, Ma—don’t take on so! Just be¬ 
cause Vera don’t happen to care for shortcake. All 
of us has our queer streaks, ye know. Mebbe straw'- 

berries doesn’t agree with ber. Mebbe-” 

“ But Par—she used to like it! ” 

He snorted. “ Well, so’d I used to like carrots, 
and they go agin me awful, now. . . . You 

mustn’t feel bad, honest, Ma! ” 

Mrs. Henny wiped her eyes, attempted to control 
ber distorted mouth. u I just can’t help being 
kinda disappointed. I tried so hard to have every¬ 
thing nice for her when she come.” 

“ And ye did! ” He bowed his head in emphasis. 
u I tell yuh, it’s something that might happen to 
anybody. Vera don’t like strawberries, that’s all. 
And—and she ain’t in such a good mood because 
she’s tired from travelling.” 

Mrs. Henny glanced up quickly. “ But, Par— 
the trip this afternoon! And the Watsons coming! 
*—d’ya think she’ll wanta go?” 

“ Wanta go? Say, you give any girl a chance to 
go riding to Summitville in our new car, and with 

136 



VERA 

Elbert Watson, too! Just you ask her does she 
wanta! ” 

“All during dinner I thought I’d ask her and 
then I’d get scared.” 

“ Scared? What of? ” Willis Henny pretended 
ignorance. 

“ Well, she’s different from what I expected. 
Seems like she’s changed an awful lot this last 
year. She—she’s so awful—grand! ” 

“ Course she’s grand. Ain’t she your daughter? ” 

With a forced laugh, Mr. Henny went back to his 
place and seating himself, fell to on his hitherto 
untouched dessert. 

In spite of those comforting words to his wife, he 
was uneasy about Vera, too. Her home-coming had 
been out of keeping with his own anticipations as 
well as Mrs. Henny’s. Her attitude, if he had 
thought she realized it, would to his mind have 
been downright “ impident.” The idea of the little 
whipper-snapper making her mother cry! 

He was, however, exceedingly fond of Vera. He 
had seen very little of her as yet; she had been 
away at school during nearly all of his married life. 
He liked to think of her as his own child, he who 
had known only a lonely bachelor’s existence until 
he was over forty. In his vision she had been quite 
like her mother, big-hearted, enthusiastic, compan¬ 
ionable. He didn’t want to be disillusioned now; 
he was ready with countless explanations for her. 

“ You trot along up-stairs, Ma, and tell her about 

137 


MASQUES 

this afternoon,” he suggested. “That’ll brighten 
her up some.” 

Mrs. Henny lifted her weighty body from her 
chair, and started, slowly, to obey. “ It’d be a tine 
party. We’ll have to go anyway, as long as the 
Watsons are asked. I love to eat at the Summit- 
ville hotel! If she’ll only go! ” 

Heavily she made her way out. . . . When 

she had gone Willis Henny shook his head. 

4 

Vera, going to her room, found little Edna Sut¬ 
ton before the dressing-table. 

Edna, she remembered, was the child with whom 
she had played occasionally, during that year in 
Siam before she had been sent away to school. 
They were not particularly congenial in those days; 
Vera, even then, possessed a fine sense of her own 
worth, and the Sutton child was an excellent mimic. 
Their companionship had ended quite abruptly 
with a loud, resounding slap on Edna’s freckled 
cheek. 

And now, the former playmate was the Hennys’ 
servant. . . . Vera hoped the girl would real¬ 

ize the difference. 

As she entered the room the maid swung about 
guiltily and dropped the manicure set which she 
had been examining. 

“ Oh—it’s you, Ver—Miss Vera! ” 

Vera stood in the doorway with her hand against 

138 


VERA 


lier cheek in an effective attitude that she had ac¬ 
quired from watching Ethel Barrymore. “ Yes, it’s 
I.” 

She had grown to be rather a pretty little thing, 
had Edna, still freckled as to snub-nose, but with 
eyes that were large and entreating, and a wide 
red mouth. But far from a beauty. . . . Vera 
noted the fact with a certain complaisance. 

“ You needn’t stop to unpack my things,” Vera’s 
displeased gaze was on the scattered nail-file and 
buffer. “ I’ll do that myself. You may go now, 
Edna.” 

The maid flushed. “ I’m sorry—I-” 

“ That will do.” 

She closed the door after Edna’s hastily retiring 
figure. That was the right way to begin; now there 
would be no doubt as to who was in authority. Im¬ 
pudent girl! Meddling with things that didn’t be¬ 
long to her. It was well enough for her to lay out 
Vera’s clothes, but to polish her nails with Vera’s 
buffer . . . ! 

This self-consciousness in the matter of class dis¬ 
tinction alone exposed the joints of Vera’s armor. 
She had taught herself to be exactly like those other 
girls at Shelborough whom she had admired. Yet 
in her heart she felt the difference so acutely; she 
was so eternally on her guard lest others should 
feel it, too. 

Gowns and suits were folded on the bed, just as 
they had come out of the suitcase and trunks. 

139 



MASQUES 

Vera crossed to the wardrobe for hangers, returned 
to the bed, and started to tit the shoulders of the 
garments on the wooden cross-pieces. A simple 
velvet evening-frock of royal blue from Mine. Har- 
quenne’s; a negligee of sea-green crepe and ecru 
lace ; a chinchilla trimmed suit of severe lines from 
Gray’s—a good thing that she had stocked up with 
presentable clothes before leaving ^New York; Siam 
styles would be impossible. 

She was interrupted by a knock on the door, and 
Mrs. Henny’s bulky physique intruded itself. 
“Whatcha doing, Verer? Unpacking?” She 
came over to where her daughter sat and picked up 
the blue evening-gown. “ Ain’t that pretty! Yeeds 
some beads or something, though. Awful plain! ” 

“ I want it plain. It looks—aristocratic.” 

Mrs. Henny pursed her fat cheeks. “ Well, I 
dunno about that. But it’d look a lot more stylish 
if you fussed it up some.” She laid aside the gown 
and turned to her daughter, vague worriment show¬ 
ing itself in lumpy creases on her wide brow. 
“ Verer-” 

“ Yes? ” 

“ Verer, we got a little surprise forya!” Mrs. 
Henny’s customary enthusiasm was now somewhat 
forced. “ Ho you remember Si Watson and his wife 
and little boy, Elbert? Well, Elbert’s grown up, 
now, of course—he’s a fine young man—and— 
and-” 

“ Well? ” Vera was impatient. 

140 




VERA 


“ Well, your par’s got up a party for this after¬ 
noon ! We’re all going over to Summitville in the 
car and have supper at the hotel—ain’t that nice! ” 

Vera laughed unexpectedly. “Nice? Oh, yes. 

It would be lovely. But I can’t go. I-” she 

paused. Then: “ I’ve a terrific headache. You 
must go without me. I’m sorry.” 

“ Oh. . . . Par’ll be so disappointed! And 

I thought you and Elbert-” Mrs. Henny 

stopped. The lines about her mouth drooped in¬ 
stinctively, but she made an effort to conceal the 
effect of Vera’s frustration of their plans for her. 
“ It’s too bad, dearie! Travelling, I suppose. But 
maybe another time. And I guess Par and me’ll 
have to go as long as he’s already asked the Wat¬ 
sons.” She rose unwillingly and made her ponder¬ 
ous way toward the door where she turned. 
“ Never mind, Verer! ” she flung back, “ I’ll tellya 
all about it! ” Heavily her departing footsteps 
echoed down the hall. 

Vera, relieved to find herself alone for the after¬ 
noon, continued unpacking. 

The size and privacy of this room of hers was 
gratifying. In New York she had boarded with 
one of the Shelborough teachers who acted as offi¬ 
cial chaperone for the out-of-town pupils. Vera 
had been given a small rear bedroom at an exor¬ 
bitant rent where she was constantly encroached 
upon by the other boarders. 

But here, she had all this space of her own. A 

141 




MASQUES 

place for everything: clothes, toilet articles, books 
. . . books. ... At the bottom of a trunk 

she came upon them. Shakespeare, Ibsen, Synge, 
Moliere,—plays and treatises on the theater. 

She rather prided herself as an intellectual on 
the subject of the drama. Few girls of her age 
were so well read in that respect. She had com¬ 
mitted to memory as many as twenty of the best 
known female roles. When her opportunity came, 
it wouldn’t find her unprepared. 

The Merchant of Venice fell open at Portia’s 
speech, and she picked up the book: 

“The quality of mercy is not strained, 

It droppeth-” 

Her cold, excellently trained voice, pronounced 
the words; her fluent, conscious gestures completed 
the beautiful unnaturalness. . . . 

That evening Mrs. Henny again burst in, this 
time upon a very handsome, but very sane Ophelia. 
Vera had gone through her repertoire. She jumped 
slightly at her mother’s entrance, and she switched 
on the lights in the now half-darkened room. She 
had almost forgotten, for the time, that such 
people even existed as Willis Henny and her 
mother. 

“ Good gracious! ” Mrs. Henny exclaimed. “ We 
just got back and I heard you talking—I was 
afraid-” 

“Yes. It was nothing—my head is better.” 

142 




VERA 


Vera attempted to pin in her supposedly mad locks. 
“ Did you enjoy your ride? ” 

“ Did we? ” Mrs. Henny beamed. “ Yerer, I’m 
so sorry you missed it! We went to the hotel for 
supper and we had fried chicken and asparagus 

salad and mushrooms and potato cakes and-” 

Vera sank into a chair wearily. After all, she 
believed that her head did ache distressingly. 


5 

The one interesting event of Vera’s life in Siam 
was her daily trip into the town for the mail. It 
meant contact with the outside world, the only 
world that she cared anything about—New York. 

Not that she received many letters. Angela Day 
occasionally sent a few lines when she was in an 
epistolary mood. Mildred Fahnstock was a poor 
correspondent; very little could be expected of her. 
And Yera hadn’t bothered to make many other 
friends among her classmates. 

No, she relied upon the papers and periodicals to 
which she subscribed, for her news. The Theater 
Magazine, Vogue, Town Topics . It was, in fact, in 
the latter sheet that she heard for the first time of 
Mildred’s elopement : 

“ One of the most interesting sudden marriages 
during the past month was that of Miss Mildred 
Fahnstock, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. F. Gordon 
Fahnstock, to Mr. Henry Tadd. It seems that Miss 

143 



MASQUES 

Fahnstock, who is one of this year’s graduates of 
The Shelborough School, fell quite violently in love 
with Mr. Tadd, and eloped with him within two 
weeks after meeting him. Mr. Tadd, at the time, 
was serving as a clerk at the Mawosta Inn, where 
the Fahnstocks were spending the summer. Rumor 
hath it that the fond father followed the happy pair 
to Philadelphia, with the purpose of annulling the 
marriage, but that he was unsuccessful.” 

Vera had been idly glancing through the paper 
when her eye had lighted on the notice. She read 
it through quickly, her handsome features stiffening 
as she went on. Finally finishing, she threw it 
aside with an exclamation of annoyance. 

Was serving as a clerk at the Mawosta Inn. . . . 

Well, that simply meant that Mildred was done 
for, socially; and it simultaneously closed one of 
Vera’s own gates to advancement. 

Ever since she had first entered The Shelborough 
School, Vera had worked constantly with one end in 
view. These other girls, she soon realized, had the 
advantage of breeding which she could never have. 
They would grow up, each one with a niche into 
which she would eventually fit. The things that 
Vera would have to strive for, they would take for 
granted. They would marry men who had been 
brought up in the same limited sphere; they would 
raise their children to be exactly like themselves. 
It was a sort of endless chain, broken only occa¬ 
sionally by the slipping of one tiny link, which 

144 


VERA 


usually tended to make the new joining stronger 
than ever against other breaks. 

Mildred had proved to be that weaker link—Vera 
ought to have foreseen that! And the Falmstocks 
and the Days, those two families had been Vera’s 
stock in trade. For through them, above the fam¬ 
ilies of any of the other girls, she felt that she 
might “ arrive.” The Fahnstocks had the prestige 
of their enormous wealth and the fact that they 
entertained delightfully; old Mrs. Day, Angela’s 
grandmother and only relative, was the sort of per¬ 
son that people boasted of knowing. 

The thought occurred to Vera, now, that perhaps 
she had made a mistake in placing her hope of 
social advancement on three unstable foundations, 
her two school friendships, and her dramatic ambi¬ 
tion. People sometimes slipped into society by 
means of the stage, but such cases were rare. If 
she had made other friends in New York—but she 
hadn’t thought that worth while, and besides, she 
hadn’t been over popular at school. She hadn’t 
been disliked, but her senior presidency she had 
owed, most of all, to her good looks. The class 
had simply wanted a representative of whose ap¬ 
pearance they might be proud, so naturally enough, 
thev had chosen her. . . . 

She must, of course, send a gift to Mildred at 
once. She sat down at her desk and wrote a note 
to Gareth’s in New York; a Cloisonne vase, she sug¬ 
gested. Mildred’s home would probably be well- 

145 


MASQUES 

appointed, (Mr. Fahnstock would see to that,) and 
a vase was always in excellent taste. She inclosed 
a card to be sent with the gift: 

“ My very best wishes for your happiness in the 

future, and my love-” 

Love . . . that was the trouble with Milly. 
She had always been silly about thinking herself in 
love. And now. . . . 

Vera crossed over to her dressing-table and fac¬ 
ing her reflection sternly, she spoke aloud: 

“ Don’t you ever do a thing like that! You use 
your head! ” 


146 



CHAPTER n 


1 

She was awakened that October morning by the 
sound of the grass cutter on the front lawn. Clip, 
clip,—whurrrr. . . . She lay inertly for a mo¬ 

ment, dreading the hours before her. Then spring¬ 
ing up, she went over to the window, to close it. 

Backward and forward, across the square of 
green that fronted the house, Willis Henny’s spare 
figure pushed the mower. Coatless, collarless, with 
spotted gray trousers and the inevitable lavender 
suspenders. The cool fall air gave a certain extra 
energy to his movements; he capered slightly, at 
the turns. 

Yera sighed, and pulled together the curtains. 
She resented her stepfather’s preference in the mat¬ 
ter of doing his own chores, just as she resented 
everything else in connection with her life in Ohio. 
She didn’t understand the people, or their customs, 
or their mode of living. It was all strange to her, 
after her life in New York. Why had her parents 
sent her away to learn to like the things that they 
didn’t like, if this was what she must return to? 
She couldn’t quite follow their line of reasoning. 

To-day, she remembered, was the day of the Har¬ 
vest Festival. All the farmers for miles about 
journeyed to the town of Siam for that annual 

147 


MASQUES 

celebration. There were live-stock shows and prod¬ 
uct shows, and the young people of the village had 
put up a tent in which to give an afternoon enter¬ 
tainment. Somewhat scornfully Vera had prom- 

% 

ised to recite for them; it would be good practice 
for her to be before an audience again, even such an 
unsophisticated audience. 

She chose a gray street gown that fell from her 
shoulders in a long, loose panel at the back; a dull 
blue velvet toque for her splendidly poised head. 
Her two-skin sable fur she carried over her arm, 
though she appreciated perfectly well that no one 
in Siam would know it from kolinsky. 

She had awakened too late for breakfast; it must 
be nearly time to leave. At any rate, she wasn’t 
hungry; so many hearty meals made her dull. 

Her mother was heavily bustling about down¬ 
stairs, and as Vera appeared she called out: “ Now, 
ain’t that too bad! I saved your wawrfuls forya 
until ten o’clock, Yerer. Whatcha want now? 
Cuppa cawrfee? ” 

“ No, nothing. Isn’t it time to go? ” 

“ Yeh. Nearly. Just waiting for Mis’ Sutton 
to get her things on.” 

“ Mrs. Sutton? ” Yera straightened. “ Surely 
you don’t mean that you’re going to take our cook 
with us—in our car? ” 

Her mother did such dreadful things! Yera’s 
whole meticulously correct being shuddered at the 
idea of such indiscrimination. 

148 


VERA 


“ Now, Verer! ” Mrs. Henny’s flat features were 
troubled. “ The Suttons are nice folks. Old Tom 
Sutton used to be a crony of Par’s. And you 

mustn’t think that just because—but—shhh-” 

she paused with one great finger against her lips. 
“ Here's Ednar now, with her mar.” 

Mrs. Sutton, small, but round and apple-faced, 
preceded her daughter through the kitchen swing- 
door. Her mouth was sunk in and toothless, and 
her thin gray hair was brushed back straight into a 
tiny knob at the back of her head. Half-way be¬ 
tween knob and forehead the remains of a hat 
wobbled uncertainly. 

“ Go on, Ma! ” Edna breathed encouragingly, and 
she gave a rather defiant bow to Vera. “ Good¬ 
morning, Miss.” 

Vera took in the girl’s costume. Thin dimity 
dress of pale pink, white shoes and stockings, cheap 
but demure straw hat. Edna fitted into Siam like 
a thrush in an Ohio field. Vera was the arrogant, 
self-conscious cardinal. 

“ There’s the car! ” Mrs. Henny screamed sud¬ 
denly. “ We better go get in! ” 

One by one they filed out of the door. Mrs. 
Henny, puffing with enthusiasm; Vera, haughtily 
indifferent; Mrs. Sutton, hanging back doubtfully; 
and Edna with an irreverent tongue stuck out in 
the direction of her young mistress. 

There was cheerful talk exchanged between Mr. 
and Mrs. Henny and the three Suttons during the 

149 



MASQUES 

ride, but Vera didn’t enter in. She sat looking out 
of the side window, as remote as possible from the 
rest of the party. Her mother’s loud voice shrieked 
almost continuously, punctuated by Edna’s high 
giggle and an occasional guffaw from young Tom. 

At last they reached the tent and the Hennys and 
Suttons separated, much to Vera’s relief. She saw 
the trio go off in the direction of a frankfurter- 
wagon. 

“ How about a hot-dog, yourself, girlie? ” Willis 
Henny inquired solicitously. 

But Mrs. Henny shook her head. “ ISTo, she don’t 
want any of that stuff! Lookit! I brought a Ther¬ 
mos bottle and some sanwidges and cake and olives 
and salted nuts. Oh, we got a fine lunch right here 
in the car! C’mon, Par! Let’s eat! ” 


2 

The program began at three. There was a chil¬ 
dren’s play given first, “ Little Robin and the Seven 
Bunny-Rabbits.” All the children of the district 
took part, and instead of seven rabbits, as the title 
demanded, there proved to be over sixty, which in¬ 
cluded the entire public school kindergarten and 
most of the first primary. 

The Baptist church choir sang “ Beautiful Isle 
of Somewhere,” and a collection was taken for the 
county poorhouse. 

After that, Elbert Watson and his “ Four Jazz- 
boes,” who were village boys of about his own age 

150 


VERA 


and callowness, rendered five-months-old ragtime 
pieces on cornet, harmonica, fiddle, piano, and 
drum. It was as if a tinsmith had suddenly gone 
insane; when the din finally stopped the respite al¬ 
most hurt. 

They had, Vera noted with placid satisfaction, 
kept her recitation until the end. Now, a thin, be¬ 
nign gentleman whom she suspected of being a 
minister announced: “ Miss Henny, Miss Vera 
Henny will give us Shelley’s Ozy—Ozyman—dias.” 
And there was a polite but faint ripple of applause. 

She rose and made her way to the platform where 
she faced her audience, calm, perfectly assured, a 
trifle supercilious. 

‘ ‘ I met a traveller from an antique land 
Who said:-” 

It was the same poem that she had recited at her 
graduation; in her imagination she pictured that 
other audience, saw them lean forward in their 
seats to catch her words, heard the eagerness of 
their applause. 

“—whose frown, 

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command-” 

A stifled giggle from the back of the room, a high 
giggle that Vera recognized. Then a low murmur, 
and silence. Vera glaringly continued: 

“—boundless and bare, 

The lone and level sands stretch far away. ’ y 

151 




MASQUES 

In the applause which necessarily followed, Vera 
found her way back to her place. She was not re¬ 
called, and the applause died an easy death. 

Now, chairs were being pulled aside and an espe¬ 
cially-built dancing floor in the center of the tent 
was ready for use. Elbert Watson assembled his 
“ Jazzboes ” and they struck up an inharmonious 
“ Down Home Rag.” One brave couple made the 
first plunge and others followed suit, until pres¬ 
ently the floor was packed with a happy, swaying, 
singing crowd of young people, who fortunately 
were too unversed in the pursuit of pampered pleas¬ 
ures to be bored by simple ones. 

Vera watched the proceedings uneasily. She had 
no desire to dance with these boys and girls, and 
yet she disliked to stand out so publicly branded 
as “ unpopular.” Hugging the side of the tent as 
inconspicuously as possible, she caught sight of 
Edna Sutton, prancing joyously with a red-necked 
farmer lad, and Vera’s face hardened. Imperti¬ 
nent little thing! Vera was sure it was she who 
had laughed at Ozymandias. 

She saw her mother and Willis Henny with a 
group of other parents in the distance. Her step¬ 
father smiled at her, waved a knotted hand, and 
seeing that she was alone, came over to where she 
was standing. She had a sense of uneasiness at his 
approach. 

“ This ain’t right,” he said, frowning. “ Just 
you wait—I’ll get ye a partner.” 

152 


VERA 


u Oil, no—please don’t,” Vera replied hastily. 
“ I’m tired. I’d much rather watch.” 

He shrugged, asked her if she wouldn’t come with 
him and the other older people, and at her refusal, 
left her. She didn’t act natural, to his way of 
thinking. Young girls always liked to dance, 
if they were normal. He sighed as he joined 
his wife; Vera was fast becoming a problem to 
him. 

The tune had changed to “ Pretty Baby.” Boys 
and girls joined in the chorus as they hilariously 
went through the steps of a Paul Jones. To Vera 
their naivete was almost shocking; they belonged 
to a different race from the satiated young Club de 
Vingt trotters whom she had met in New York. 
They were like a different sort of animals to her; 
they made her feel, by contrast, so uncomfortably 
out of place in their presence. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice at her 
elbow, and turning, she saw that Tom Sutton was 
standing beside her. 

“ Would you—would you dance this one with me, 
Miss Vera? ” 

Vera’s handsome face flushed. With all her heart 
she would have liked to dance with him, to cast 
aside this faultless metropolitanism of hers, to join 
in the fun-making of those others already on the 
floor. But she couldn’t discard the training of her 
past four years at a breath. She had been made 
over into an artificially perfect thing; she couldn’t, 

153 


MASQUES 

suddenly, shed the gilt and turn herself figuratively 
inside out. 

And so she drew back coldly at his question. I 
beg your pardon-? ” 

“ I say-” he hesitated. “ Don’t you want to 

come on and dance? ” 

He was still in his chauffeur’s livery. Vera 
wasn’t without the sense of her own dignity and 
she felt now, as ever, keenly the relativity of the 
social classes. The idea that Tom Sutton was her 
servant and that he had possessed the effrontery to 
ask her to dance wounded her pride. She was, 
therefore, more brutal because of his brass buttons 
than she might have been, otherwise. 

“ I’m afraid I don’t care to dance,” her tone was 
frigid, “ with you. . . .” 

His boyish features whitened; her meaning was 
perfectly evident. He watched her as she haughtily 
swung about and left him standing there. When 
she was out of hearing, he muttered a few words: 

“ Well, then. Go to the deuce! ” 

And somewhat relieved, he went to search out a 
partner whom he much preferred to Miss Henny. 

But out in the car, Vera settled herself for a long 
wait. 

It was October; she wanted to go back to New 
York to study. She was miserable in Siam; she 
didn’t “ belong.” If she could only go to dramatic 
school—but her stepfather wasn’t enthusiastic on 
the subject. 


154 




VERA 


The music came to her from within the tent, and 
she lay back with her eyes closed. “ Sweetest Till 

fella, mighty lak a rose-” It would have been 

nice to have had one dance . . » just one. 
. . . But those brass buttons. . . . Her 
thoughts became indefinite. 

Willis Henny’s cheerful voice awakened her. 
“ Here we are, girlie! Back again! Guess you was 
pretty tired to drop off that way.” 

Vera sat up, looked about. The car had drawn 
up under the porte-cochere of the Henny house. 
Her mother and Edna and Mrs. Sutton were al¬ 
ready on the poreli; Edna was opening the front 
door. 

Dully, she stepped out of the car and followed 
the three women. Once inside, she started up to 
her room. 

“ Good-night, Verer! ” Mrs. Henny called out 
after her. “Wasn’t the Festival grand? Too bad 
you’re so tired, though! Sleep tight! ” 

She undressed quickly, still half-asleep, and went 
to her window, to open it. The sound of voices 
came from the direction of the garage, and Edna’s 
high, silly giggle. 

“ Why did you ever ask her to dance, anyway, 
Tom? The stuck-up thing! She makes me plain 
sick ! 99 

“TJm. Me too-” a deeper voice. “Well, I 

dunno just why. Guess I was kinda sorry for her, 
standing there decorating the wall.” 

155 




MASQUES 

“Nice of you--” from Edna. “But you’re 

wasting your time—on her ” 

Vera stalked to her bed. She wanted to feel su¬ 
perior. She succeeded in being wretched. 

3 

She spoke to her stepfather about her dramatic 
career the next day. She followed him out on the 
lawn after breakfast, where he still had a corner 
of the green to mow. 

“ Could you spare me a few moments for a con¬ 
ference this morning? I’d like to speak to you 
about something rather important.” 

He tipped his hat to the back of his head and 
scratched his forehead, puzzled. “ Conference? 
Me? All right, sure.” 

She led him into the foyer of the house, where 
she seated herself stiffly in a Louis Quinze tete-h- 
tete chair. He dropped into the other side of it, 
and sat facing her. 

“ Well? ” he asked kindly. 

She came to the point immediately. “ I want 
to go back to New York. I want to go at once.” 

“Why? ” 

“ I want to study the Drama.” (She pronounced 
it “ draahma.”) 

“ Now, go on, Vera,” Willis Henny laughed good- 
naturedly. “ You don’t mean you want to be one 
of those high-stepping chorus girls! ” 

“ Of course not.” Her oppressive dignity si- 

156 



VERA 


lenced him momentarily. “ I mean that I want to 
become an actress,” she went on. “ I want to do 
Shakespeare, and Ibsen, and all the great drama¬ 
tists. I have talent—Pm sure of that.” 

He stroked his chin meditatively. Then his 
shrewd eyes twinkled. “ Well, you wasn’t such a 
much of a hit yesterday, ye know.” 

“ ZCSTo. Not in this town —but in New York.” 

Something in her tone irritated him. " What’s 
the matter with this town, anyway? ” 

“What’s the matter with it?” She laughed. 
“ Oh, everything’s the matter with it. The people 
—the houses—the theaters—the—oh, what’s the 
use? ” 

“ There’s a good deal of use.” 

She glanced at him in calm wonder. His thin 
face was a deep red. He shook one bony finger in 
her face. 

"Look here!” he flared. “I’ve had just about 
enough of your sass and impertinence! Think 
you’re better than anybody else, don’t ye? You 
and your swell New York friends! Well, let me 
tell ye, young lady, you got a long stretch to go 
before you’ll be able to measure up to some of the 
folks 'we got right here in Siam. Good, plain folks 
that .try to be kind to each other and ain’t setting 
around, thinking how bright and pretty they are! ” 
He paid no attention to her scornful glance. “ And 

I’ll tell you-” he continued. “ I give you the 

money that put this rotten foolishness in your head, 

157 



MASQUES 

and I’ll be darned if I’ll give you any more. So ye 
can put tliat in your pipe and smoke it.” 

When he had stamped out of the room, she still 
sat there, frowning. At last she rose and started 
up the stairs. She hadn’t believed for a moment 
that he would refuse her request. What he had 
said to her made no impression beyond that one 
fact—she couldn’t go to New York. It was alto¬ 
gether depressing. 


4 

But Willis Henny went back to his lawn-mower. 
His thin, flushed face changed slowly to its normal 
color as he returned to the quieting monotony of 
his work. At the end of a dozen lengths he re¬ 
gretted exceedingly having lost his temper. 

Vera, he reasoned, must have some right on her 
side of the question and he hadn’t given her an op¬ 
portunity to express herself. He believed firmly 
that her attitude, on the whole, was wrong, but he 
felt that he would far better have convinced her of 
the fact had he approached her in a more open- 
minded manner. 

The recent months had brought sincere disap¬ 
pointment to him. At first he had closed his eyes 
to Vera’s shortcomings, had tried to make himself 
believe that they were the results of unusual situa¬ 
tions, or of his own imagination. But Vera had 
persistently disillusioned him. 

There was, of course, his stepdaughter’s parent- 

158 


VERA 


age to be considered. Mrs. Henny bad confided to 
ber second husband tbe delinquencies of ber first. 

Mr. Spiegelschultz, Vera’s father, bad been tbe 
sort of man who wore striped suits and large yellow 
diamonds, and dispassionately kicked stray cats 
that got in bis way. He bad been the owner of 
some kind of restaurant near Vandam Street that 
brought him in an exceptional income, which he 
spent freely—largely upon himself. So that when, 
one day, tbe police raided bis quiet little place and 
be, coolly defying them, bad been mortally shot, his 
wife and daughter were left with nothing but the 
bouse on East Eighty-fourth Street, with which to 
sustain life. Mr. Spiegelschultz, Mrs. Henny de¬ 
clared, had been no colder in his coffin than he was 
in everyday life. He had had but one passion: am¬ 
bition. And that, oddly, had brought him to his 
death. 

Vera, it was true, knew nothing of the scandal 
connected with her father’s name, or the real reason 
why it had been so urgently suggested that she be¬ 
come a “ Henny.” Mr. Spiegelschultz had died be¬ 
fore she could remember, yet his traits of character 
were predominant in her. Willis Henny had hoped 
against hope that she would develop the kindly soul 
of her mother, but Mrs. Henny’s nature was as re¬ 
mote from Vera’s as that of a complete stranger. 

Since her advent in Siam, Mr. and Mrs. Henny 
had discussed Vera soberly and with an increasing 
bewilderment. She was like her father, Mrs. Henny 

159 


MASQUES 

vouchsafed, only her father hadn’t gone with 
“ sassiety ” as Vera had, and that made her rather 
harder to deal with. 

“ But just let’s us give her time to get used to 
Siam, Par,” Mrs. Henny insisted. “ She’ll he all 
right oncet she does get used to it.” 

“ I’ve got my doubts, but we’ll try. Anyways if 
she acts like this much longer the town’ll tar and 
feather her,” was Willis Henny’s prediction. 

So, they had suspended action in Vera’s case, and 
had given her the proverbial rope with which to 
hang herself. Only, instead of putting it to its 
general use, Vera had attempted to make a lasso 
of it, to throw it over the Woolworth Building, 
and even by that means to drag herself to Hew 
York. 

All this passing through Mr. Henny’s mind as he 
slowly cut the yellowed grass, caused him once 
more to set aside his mower and to go back into the 
house. 

“ Ma! ” his thin voice bleated like an old sheep. 
“ Ma! ” 

“ Yes, Par—whatcha want? ” Mrs. Henny 
stepped out into the hallway from the dining-room 
where she had been shelling peas. 

He motioned to her toward the gilt-furnished 
parlor and puzzled, she followed him into the room 
and watched him secretively close the door. 

He faced her. “ Vera and me’s had a set to.” 

“ Oh—oh, Par! ” Her heavy face fell instantly 

160 


VERA 


into troubled lines. “ You didn’t scold her? 
Whatja say to her? ” 

He hung his head. 66 Well, I—I told her pretty 
much where she got off. I hadn’t ought to. She 
must think she’s doing the right thing, I sup¬ 
pose. It’s just that she don’t know what a fool 
she is.” 

“ Was she mad? ” 

“ She? No. She ain’t the kind to get mad. I 
wisht she was. . . . Ma—I wonder couldn’t we 

reason with her, mebbe, let her know how we feel 
without busting out like I did before. Just tell her 
gentle like.” 

“ ’S that why you got me in here, Par? To kind 
of talk it over? ” 

“ Yep.” He spread his gnarled fingers, studying 
them absently. “ And I thought mebbe she’d tell 
us—what’s ailing her. I’d like to know. Honest I 
would.” 

Mrs. Henny nodded vehemently. “ So’d I.” She 
started for the door. “ I’ll go get her and bring her 
here.” She hesitated, then turned. “ Par—you 
won’t scold her now, willya ? ” 

“ I’ll be nice,” he promised. u Nice as I know 
how to be.” 

When he was alone, waiting, he rehearsed a scene 
with Vera in which his stepdaughter, in tears, apol¬ 
ogized for her former inconsiderateness and prom¬ 
ised always to dwell contentedly in Siam while her 
parents lived. But Vera, returning in the flesh 

161 


MASQUES 

presently with, her mother, dispelled this idle day- 
dr earn. 

She was so coolly reserved, so haughtily self-re¬ 
liant. She came into the room with her handsome 
brows raised questioning^. 

“ You wish to see me? ” 

All thought of taking Vera on his lap—as she 
had reluctantly allowed him to do when she was a 
child—vanished at her tone. There was no idea of 
petting the nonsense out of his stepdaughter in a 
good-natured, fatherly way, now. 

He cleared his throat. “Vera—we—your ma 
and I—we want to know what’s the trouble. We 
see you ain’t happy any of the time. What’s 
wrong? Is it that yuh hate us all so bad—don’t 
yuh want to tell us ? ” 

Vera met his shrewd eyes quickly. Was he go¬ 
ing to let her go to New York, after all? 

“ No. I don’t hate you. It’s simply that I don’t 
understand you. I want to go where I fit in. I’ve 
growm away from you—don’t you see? ” 

He understood her meaning. “ I ain’t got any 
thought of sending yuh to the city, so don’t get your 
hopes up.” 

Then why did he want to talk to her? Couldn’t 
he appreciate that they had nothing in common, 
that they could never come to a meeting-ground, 
they who were so utterly, impossibly different? 

“ T know what you think of me—you and 

Mother-” Vera’s calm voice took on a higher 

162 



VERA 


pitch. “ You think I’m horrid. I don’t care what 
you think—because—because I can’t help it! ” 

She was as surprised as Willis Henny, himself, 
at her flicker of emotion. But she wanted him so 
badly to know how she felt. If only he did, per¬ 
haps even yet he might be persuaded to send her 
away. 

“ You never had the opportunities that you’ve 
given me, and so you don’t know. . . . But 
can’t you see? I’ve had a taste of nectar and am¬ 
brosia. I can’t come back to plain strawberry 
shortcake for the rest of my life—I can’t! ” 

“ But Verer-” Mrs. Henny choked prosaic¬ 

ally. “ You used to like strawrberry short¬ 
cake -” 

“ I know. I was taught to like it. And now I’ve 
been taught not to—and I never can like it again 
—never! ” She paused, a red spot in each of her 
liigh-boned cheeks. “ I hate Siam—I hate it! And 
you can keep me here, but you can’t make me want 
to stay! . . .” 

Willis Henny didn’t speak again until after she 
strode from the room. Then he turned to his wife. 

“ It seems like as if it was mostly our fault, her 
being like this,” he ventured simply. 

Mrs. Henny bowed her great head. “ Ours—and 
Jim Spiegelschultz’s,” she added. 

5 

The months dragged by interminably. Vera kept 

163 




MASQUES 

herself still aloof from the townspeople, and al¬ 
though she wasn’t the sort of nature to suffer from 
loneliness, she did experience a severe boredom. 

She made one last desperate attempt to go to 
New York. In April, at the outbreak of the war, 
she insisted for a time that her duty lay in the East. 
But Willis Henny told her that she could roll band¬ 
ages and knit socks at home if she felt so patriotic, 
so that ended that. 

Then, one day early in June, Mr. and Mrs. Henny 
went out for a ride in the car that was more costly 
than a Rolls-Royce, and they never came back. 
Vera was free to direct her own life. 

She was sitting in her room reading, that after¬ 
noon, when the telephone rang dowm-stairs. She 
didn’t go down, since no one ever called her, and 
presently she heard Edna answering it. 

“ Hello, . . . yes, this is Mr. Henny’s house 
. . . yes. . . . They’re out. . . . They’re— 
whatf . . . I don’t understand. . . . I ” 

Something in the girl’s voice made Vera rise and 
go to the head of the stairs. “ What is it? ” she 
called down. 

But Edna didn’t answer. She shook her head 
and Vera saw that her face "was ghastly pale, her 
wide mouth like a scar across it. She still spoke 
into the mouthpiece: “ They’re . . . but Tom 
—what about—Tom? . . . Oh, no!— no! ” 

Fumblingly she replaced the receiver and leaned 
back against the wall. “ Oh, God! ” she gasped. 

164 




VERA 


“ Dear, dear God! Don’t let it be! Don’t let 

it-! ” And she began to giggle, a high, nerve- 

racking giggle that ended in a sob. 

Yera ran down the stairs and going swiftly over 
to the girl, grasped her arm. “ What is it? Don’t 
stand there like an idiot! What’s happened?” 

“ They’re—all three—it was a train—and 

they-” Suddenly Edna’s knees gave way and 

she sank to the floor, covering her face with her 
hands. “ Oh, Tom—Tom-” she moaned. 

Mrs. Sutton appeared in the doorway. “ I heard 
a noise, and I-” 

Edna jumped up quickly, herself forgotten in her 
anxietv for her mother. She rushed to her, threw 
her young arms about the round, bent frame. 
“ Mother, darling—I love you—I love you! And I 
can take care of you all alone! ” Abruptly she 
wheeled upon Yera. “ Stop looking at us that way 
—stop! ” she shrieked. “ Haven’t you any feeling 
for your own people—haven’t you? ” Then she 
softened, and she broke into sobs again. “ Leave 
us by ourselves—please. I’ve got to tell—my— 
mother.” 

Once again in her room, Yera closed the door. 
They were dead. The amazing fact, once it pene¬ 
trated, swept over her and left her shaking, gasp¬ 
ing. Certain scenes flashed through her mind: her 
arrival in Siam, the Harvest Festival, Willis Henny 
mowing the lawn. 

“ I’ve been—beastly! ” 


165 







MASQUES 

She threw herself face downward across her bed ; 
sobbing. 

“ Mother! Why didn’t I-? Mother! . . .” 

But after a time she rose more calmly and crossed 
to her lavatory. It was her misfortune that she 
was temperamentally incapable of emotion for any 
length of time. The cool water on her hot face 
brought back her old composure, her old apathetic 
habit of thought. 

They were dead. Now that the shock was over, 
she could face the fact without emotion. Only a 
slight excitement, a slight elation thrilled her. 

Her life was still before her. She was free! 


166 


*> .* 



CHAPTER III 


1 

Willis Henny, after his death, once more proved 
his generosity. Since he left no kin, his will had 
been made out in his wife’s favor, without reserva¬ 
tions, and in the event of her demise, in favor of 
Vera. 

So, after closing the house in Siam the following 
fall, Vera returned to New York, a millionairess in 
her ow T n right. She took a suite of rooms at the 
Vandennore, fitted herself out with a new ward¬ 
robe, indulged in jewels that were altogether in¬ 
appropriate to her youth, and threw herself into 
war work. 

Her ambition for the stage had been simply a 
means to an end. She inferred from Town Topics 
that she could attain that end by a far shorter and 
easier route. It was true that even chorus girls 
sometimes married dukes, provided that the girls 
were pretty enough to catch them and clever enough 
to win them. But it was a known fact that after 
marriage the young outsiders seldom really were 
u taken up ” by the women of society. If, however, 
a charming and talented young lady offered her 
services to the Fifth Avenue League for War Re¬ 
lief, to what social heights might she not, eventu- 

167 


MASQUES 

ally, aspire? Mrs. Fenwick Widderly was the pres¬ 
ident of tlie organization, Vera knew, and associa¬ 
tion with her, at least, might . . . 

She called at the office of the league one morning 
shortly after her arrival in town. A private house 
on Madison Avenue had been taken for war work 
and the foyer and reception-room were tilled with 
desks, over which, for the most part, efficient look¬ 
ing middle-aged women presided. 

“ What can 1 do for you? ” 

Vera halted at the first desk and glanced down 
into the face of an extremely masculine female of 
thirty. “ I’ve come to volunteer—to offer my serv¬ 
ices.” 

“Splendid. Sit down. What can you do?” 
The virile young woman whipped out a file card, 
poised a competent pencil above it. • 

“ I can recite.” 

“Recite? The hell you say! What can you 
recite? ” 

Vera stiffened. “ Almost anything. I give reci¬ 
tations. I could do it to amuse the wounded sol¬ 
diers or-” 

“ Can you dance? ” 

“ I beg your pardon-? ” Vera was altogether 

at sea with this stranger. Could she be one of the 
—elect? It seemed impossible. A T o, surely she 
must be one of the paid workers, perhaps one of 
Mrs. Widderly’s secretaries. 

“ I say—can you dance? We need dancing girls 

168 




VERA 

—girls with, moral references. How about yon? 
Can you qualify? ” 

“ Fm a graduate of The Shelborough School. Hr. 
Shelborough will supply any references necessary.” 
Vera raised her chin and looked out between 
haughtily half-closed lids. 

“ Name, please? ” 

“ Miss Yera Henny.” 

“ Miss Yera—how do you spell the last name? 
H-e-n-n-y—oh, Kenny! ” The woman filled out the 
card; her eyes looked up pleasantly over horn¬ 
rimmed spectacles. “ You’ll do fine, Miss Henny. 
We’ll have you dancing and we’ll have you reciting, 
don’t worry. Now come with me and I’ll introduce 
you to some of our officers. My name is Hoolan, 
Mrs. John Hoolan.” She thrust out her business¬ 
like hand and Yera touched it with her own cool 
fingers. 

u How do you do? ” 

She followed the woman’s lead and they made 
the round of the desks. Mrs. Tersen, Miss Wain- 
bright, Miss Holt, Mrs. Andrew Meredith—some of 
the names Yera recognized at once and was cor¬ 
respondingly cordial. They, in turn, welcomed her 
cheerfully, though with a certain reserve. But 
their attitude toward Mrs. Hoolan was surprisingly 
friendly: they laughed at her profanity, they in¬ 
dulged her masculinity. It was evident that she 
was a league favorite. 

“ Come on, Miss Henny,” she said finally, after 

169 


f 


MASQUES 

Vera had been introduced on all sides. “ Yon come 
with me and I J 11 take you to Mrs. Widderly. She’s 
our president, you know.” 

Mrs. Fenwick Widderly. . . . Vera’s proud 

head involuntarily lifted the more at the idea of 
meeting her. She had hoped to come in contact 
with her through the league, but she had thought to 
wait months, perhaps, for an opportunity like this. 

She was taken into a private room opening at the 
right of the foyer. As she and Mrs. Doolan en¬ 
tered, an elderly woman who had been standing 
with her back to the door, looldng through some 
letter files, turned about. 

“ Mrs. Widderly, this is Miss Henny,” Mrs. 
Doolan announced. “ She’s volunteered to help us, 
and—thank God—she’s willing to dance.” 

Mrs. Widderly came forward and smiled at Vera. 
She was slim and frail, with white hair and a firm 
chin. Her face in repose had a tragic cast and the 
smile flashed across it in brilliant relief. 

“ I’m glad you’ll dance. We have such difficulty 
getting the right sort of girls. Most of the girls 
whom we want are attending the officers’ Club balls 
at the Vandermore—and, of course, here we only 
have enlisted men.” 

“Oh, yes?” Vera gazed back a trifle blankly. 
It hadn’t occurred to her that she might be required 
to dance with any ordinary soldier or sailor who 
happened to ask her. But it was obviously not the 
time to show disappointment. She remarked virtu- 

170 


VERA 


ously: “ Tlie enlisted men are surely as worthy sub¬ 
jects as the officers—don’t you think, Mrs. Wid- 
derly? ” 

The older woman, Vera noted with satisfaction, 
had been taking in her costume. Her brand new 
suit from Gray’s must necessarily make a favorable 
impression, her clocked silk hose, her chic Goura- 
trimmed hat. Mrs. Widderly herself was dressed 
simply, almost to the point of sliabbiness. Strange, 
Vera thought, when the Widderlys were known to 
be millionaires several times over. The fact that 
the United States was at war didn’t occur to her in 
this connection. 

But Mrs. Doolan had broken in with the sugges¬ 
tion that it was noon. “ Time to knock off work. 
Do we all 4 chow ’ together to-day? ” 

Vera raised questioning eyebrows and Mrs. Wid¬ 
derly smiled again. “ If the canteen is open we 
might go now. I’m ready. You get the others,” she 
directed. Then she turned to Vera: “ If you care 
to join us, we have rather a pleasant noon hour— 
we workers.” 

“Oh, thanks-” a bit too eagerly. “Yes in¬ 

deed. I’d love to.” 

Lunch with Mrs. Widderly? Vera was very 
nearly awestruck. Yet that Doolan woman was in¬ 
cluded too. She didn’t like that. 

2 

Vera found the league dances rather a bore. If 

171 



MASQUES 

it hadn’t been for the daily luncheons, she would 
have been tempted to take up something else. But, 

since she had offered to address envelopes in order 

* 

to be included among the offtee workers, she was 
likewise invited to join in the recreation hour. 

Mrs. Fenwick Widderly, it seemed, had a son in 
the service. Accordingly, Vera became all the more 
Mrs. Widderly’s shadow. If she had been of a sen¬ 
sitive nature she might have resented the older 
woman’s polite but utterly impersonal response to 
her advances. Then, there was Frank Wid¬ 
derly. . . . 

Not that she had any definite designs upon him. 
But all these women with whom she was now asso¬ 
ciated were far more mature than she, and Vera 
was anxious to gain an entree into a younger set. 
Perhaps an introduction to young Widderly would 
open the door; one never knew. 

She had received an acknowledgment from Mil¬ 
dred Tadd for the vase that she had sent as a wed¬ 
ding gift. The letter had arrived before Vera left 
Siam and Milly gave her address still as the Fahn- 
stock house. Even though she were living at home, 
Milly must be socially out of things with that hus¬ 
band of hers; it really wasn’t worth while to culti¬ 
vate her now. 

Angela Bay, of course, would have been the one 
to whom she would naturally have turned. But 
Vera had tried to telephone the old Day mansion, 
only to find that the wire had been disconnected; 

172 


VERA 


Angela was probably living elsewhere. And Yera 
simply hadn’t the time to attempt further to locate 
her. No, Mrs. Widderly was near at hand; it was 
upon her that Yera based her social aspirations. 

And all of her energies, all of her thoughts for 
the future were bound in that one idea: to cast off 
the ignominy of the hidden past, to be accepted 
finally by these people whom she so envied and ad¬ 
mired. Her success had grown to be almost an 
obsession with her. She dreamed of it; it was the 
one thing she lived for. 


3 

Mr. Edward K. Storm, clubman and self-termed 
u man-about-town,” closed the front door of his opu¬ 
lent gray-stone mansion, and stood on the stoop 
gazing up at the clear-cut October moon. A long, 
thin cigar drooped from one corner of his lightly 
mustached mouth. He had paid well for the cigar; 
it was a special Montenegran brand. He enjoyed 
its pungent flavor. 

Recently he had dined, in solitary state. His 
meal had consisted of a combination of excellent 
home-made dishes concocted by his one hundred 
dollar a week cook, and a series of exotic delicacies. 
And he had enjoyed his dinner. 

Mr. Storm was, then, in a pleasantly agreeable 
state of mind as he stood that night before his 
house. He was usually, however, in the same state. 
There were for him too few mental convolutions to 

173 


MASQUES 

cause niucli inharmony of thought and spirit. Peo¬ 
ple said that he was “ clever in his own line,” and 
that meant that he was rather vacuous in any other. 

There were several courses of action open to him 
for the evening. He might go over to the Iris Club, 
play an innocuous game of backgammon with one 
of the patriarchs who frequented the place. Or, he 
could go to a play; there were two or three good 
ones that he hadn't seen as yet, inveterate first- 
nighter though he was. And always there were the 
dances at the Fifth Avenue League for War Relief. 
The latter choice suited his mood the best. 

He strolled toward Madison and turned into the 
Avenue, a popular air humming itself in his head. 
How rejuvenating the very thought of dancing to a 
bachelor of fifty! He had stopped in at the league 
occasionally before; he considered it good policy. 
And at the end of each evening he had come away 
refreshed. Mostly, he watched the younger people 
from the doorway of the ballroom. But his own 
stiffness seemed to assimilate their spontaneity. 

He arrived at the league between dances. Mrs. 
Widderly gave him a cool bow as he entered, and 
he returned it with a gay salute. The hallway was 
half-filled with couples and there was a sort of 
bored hush among them, broken by the sound of a 
calm, well-pitched voice in the adjoining room. The 
voice was reciting poetry. 

On tiptoe, Edward Storm approached the door¬ 
way and peered in. A girl was standing on a 

174 


VERA 


slightly raised platform, a tall girl with dark hair 
piled high, and the bearing of a valkyrie. 

Storm watched her a moment, then turned 
abruptly to Miss Wainbriglit, standing near. 
“ Who is she? She’s magnificent! I’d like to meet 
her—may I? . . .” 

She was beautiful. So aristocratic, so evidently 
to the manner born. Storm swiftly visioned her at 
the head of his table, in his lonely dining-hall. 
Only it wouldn’t be lonely if she were there; there 
would be guests—her friends. 

For he was a bachelor of fifty. His hobby was 
proposing to women who never would have him. 
But he wouldn’t give up trying. He needed a wife 
of good family. 


4 

Vera’s glance had wandered toward the door dur¬ 
ing her recitation, and she had seen him. His 
waxed gray mustaches impressed her immediately. 
During the applause that followed she noticed that 
he turned to one of the chaperones and obviously 
asked her a question. Presently Miss Wainbriglit 
brought him over and introduced him. Vera was 
disappointed that his name was unknown to her. 

“ You recite very charmingly,” he remarked after 
the chaperone had retired. 66 Are you a member of 
the theatrical profession? ” 

“ Oh, no!” Vera replied. (She had already 
learned from Mrs. Widderly that it was decidedly 

175 


MASQUES 

not u the thing” to be a professional.) “ I simply 

offered my services to entertain the boys. Poor 
things! They have few enough pleasures, haven’t 
they? ” 

She thought him rather absurd in the way that 
he looked at her. He, himself, was attractive 
enough, well-groomed, distinguished in a stiff, old- 
fashioned manner. But he must have been fifty- 
five or sixty at the least, and it was evident that he 
was interested in her. His acute gray eyes, which 
were too small, were at the same time a trifle too 
calculating. And there was a voidness about the 
mouth. 

The marine band in one corner of the room had 
struck up “ Frenchy.” Mr. Storm asked quickly: 
“ Are you dancing this one? ” 

“ I’m supposed to, but I’d much rather not. I’m 
tired.” 

“ Then-” he motioned toward the foyer. 

“ Couldn’t we find a place to sit? ” 

Yera agreed loftily and they went out into the 
hall. Two vacant chairs stood in the crook of the 
stairway and she sank down indolently into one of 
them. “ I want to do my duty for my country,” 
she sighed. “ But sometimes it’s hard. My feet! ” 
she extended silver slippers. “ They’ve been 
stepped on by Tennessee, Oregon, and Arkansas to¬ 
night. Those men may be able to fight, but socially 
they’re—hopeless.” 

He laughed and sat down beside her. His laugh 

176 



VERA 


came easily as though it didn’t mean much. “ It 
must he difficult for a girl like you to mix with 
people of that sort. It’s different with those other 
girls, dancing in there, but you’re of another—type. 
How is it that you’re not attending the Vandermore 
Officers’ Club dances? ” 

“ Mrs. Widderly—I think so much of her, and 
she’s president of the league, you know. I couldn’t 
think of deserting her. . . . But tell me—it’s 

my turn to question now,—tell me how you happen 
to be here.” She made a gesture toward his mufti. 
“ You surely aren’t in the service? ” 

“ No. I—well, it’s on account of the Widderlys 
and the Wainbrights that I’m here, too. Just 
drop in once in a while. Old friends of mine. 
Thurlow Wainbright is a member of my club—the 
Iris.” 

The Iris Club. This man was a member of the 
Iris Club, the most exclusive organization in New 
York. All at once Yera no longer thought him 
absurd. 

“Oh?” It was an invitation for him to talk 
more about himself; she was interested now. But 
he didn’t take it. 

Instead, he rose at the strains of a new fox-trot. 
“ Are you rested? They’ll let me dance one or two, 
I’m sure, even though I’m not in uniform. If you’ll 
do me the honor-” 

She was really tired, but she couldn’t afford to 
refuse him. He led her off stiffiy, but with deter- 

177 



MASQUES 

mination. Half-way across the room lie crushed 
her foot brutally under his own. 

“ I beg your pardon! ” 

She glanced up sweetly. 46 It’s quite all right! ” 

Indeed it was. It was almost a pleasure to be 
trod upon by New York—and the Iris Club. 

5 

She found out more about him from Mrs. Doolan. 

“ He’s Edward K. Storm, you know. He’s an art 
collector. He knows almost everybody. I don’t 
think so damn much of him, myself.” 

No, Mrs. Doolan wouldn’t. The more Vera saw 
of this efficient lady, the more she thoroughly 
scorned her. Particularly since Vera was inclined 
to be jealous of her. Perhaps because Mrs. Doolan 
made no attempt to intrude her intimacy upon the 
other women of the league, they accepted her in a 
comradely spirit that they never showed to the girl. 

But Edward Storm had been exceedingly nice to 
Vera. He had attended all of the dances since he 
had met her and always, after the intermission, they 
had their usual talk and the two final fox-trots 
together. Lately he had been taking her home to 
the Vandermore afterward, and their friendship 
was progressing rapidly. 

A few weeks after he had met her, Storm asked 
Vera to go with them to a dog-show at Roswvn. 
They were to motor out in his car. Vera accepted 
the invitation at once. 


178 


VERA 


She had never been to a dog-show, but she had 
noticed that many of the women whom she was 
aping had their pictures in the fashion sheets in 
affectionate poses with their canine pets. She de¬ 
cided that it was quite the decent thing to do, to 
own a blooded “ pup.” 

He called for her early in the afternoon. His 
limousine was splendid. She sank back into the 
cushions in revelling luxury. This car was differ¬ 
ent from the car that the Hennys had kept. The 
elegance of this was quiet, altogether conventional. 

Although driving on Long Island was pleasant, 
the dog-sliow proved a disappointment. Vera and 
Storm wandered about, apparently appraising the 
animals, in reality watching out of the corner of 
their eyes for familiar faces. At last they did spy 
Mrs. Widderly across the ground, talking to one of 
the managers. It was a Saturday, and the league 
was closed after three o’clock, which explained her 
presence. Vera waved to her, and in spite of the 
fact that their greetings were acknowledged by only 
a faint smile in response, Storm insisted that they 
join the older woman. When they finally made 
their way across the tent Vera was somewhat re¬ 
lieved to find Mrs. Widderly gone. It might have 
been embarrassing later to try to explain to Storm 
Mrs. Widderly’s coolness. 

Vera turned back. As she did so, she knocked 
against the table arrangement upon which one of 
the dogs was being exhibited. 

179 


MASQUES 

“ Oh, look! Isn’t lie a beauty! ” 

She didn’t ordinarily care for dogs. But this 
Pekingese caught her. There was something so 
superbly blue-blooded about him as he sat there 
calmly eyeing the crowds with those round, soft 
orbs. And the flatness of his small, squat nose, the 
long sleekness of his hair! Of his kind, he was an 
unmistakable nobleman. 

“ Isn’t he lovely? Wouldn’t you like to own a 
dog like that? ” 

Mr. Storm shook his head. u There’s no use 
wanting to own him. He belongs to Mrs. Wid- 
derly, and she wouldn’t sell him for anything on 
earth. He’s Ta-Tao, the champion of American 
Pekingese. His grandfather belonged to the 
Emperor of China.” 

Vera gazed down at the dog, an odd smile lift¬ 
ing the corner of her mouth at Storm’s words. 
This tiny “ Peke,” this mere handful of silk and 
warm flesh, possessed the very thing that she could 
never have—patrician lineage. The grandson of 
the pet of the Emperor of China. . . . How 

maify thousands of years of aristocratic ancestry 
behind him? Somehow he symbolized all that 
Vera was striving for, all that she could never truly 
attain. . . . 

Angry blood rose in her cheeks. It wasn’t fair! 
Providence had cheated her—was cheating others 
in the same way every day. She turned to Storm 
sharply. 


180 


V ERA 


“ I want to go, noAV.” 

Tractably be led her back to the motor, and 
helped her in. Not until she felt the comforting 
softness of those cushions and saw the white or¬ 
chids in the vase before her, did she regain her 
usual indifference. 

Then—well, what did it matter whether one had 
or had not the real background, provided one 
could feign it? 

G 

And November came, and with it the Armistice. 
And in December the Fifth Avenue League for War 
Relief closed its doors for good. Vera was out of 
work. 

She was standing in the dressing-room on that 
last day, adjusting her hat to the correct angle, 
powdering her perfect nose. She wanted to look 
her best so that when she went to say good-bye to 
the president, Mrs. Widderly might be inspired 
to ask her to call. Outside, in the foyer, she 
heard voices. Some of the other women were leav¬ 
ing. 

“All right! I’ll see you at the Colonial Club, 
won’t I, Ann? ” 

“ Tell your sister that I’m coming over to see 
her, now that I’ll have more time.” 

“Good-bye! Don’t forget the Charity Board 
meeting, next week! ” 

Vera sighed. Why couldn’t she be like them? It 

181 


MASQUES 

was so hard for her to break their ranks. They 
were an almost invincible phalanx. Try as she 
might, she made no progress. 

She had been a misfit in Siam, and here in Xew 
York she was hardly more successful. Something 
was wrong with her, she didn’t know what. She 
had thought herself above her parents’ friends, yet 
she knew that she wasn’t on an equal footing with 
these women whom she wanted as her own friends. 
It was the eternal struggle to climb one more rung, 
and the ladder was greased. 

Vera found Mrs. Widderly in her private office. 
She went up to her with her hand extended and 
with her most charmingly studied smile. 

“ Good-bye, Mrs. Widderly. I’m leaving, now.” 

The older woman took her hand. “ Good luck! 
Thanks so much for helping us. It seems strange 
to think that it’s all over now, doesn’t it? ” 

“ Yes. I’m sorry in a way. I hope—I hope we’ll 
meet again-? ” 

“ I hope so.” Mrs. Widderly’s tone was polite 
but excessively formal. “ Perhaps we shall. One 
never knows.” 

Vera took the bit between her teeth. “ I’m living 
at the Vandermore. When you’re in that neighbor¬ 
hood, Mrs. Widderly, I’d love to have you-” 

“ Thank you,” Mrs. Widderly said quickly. “ I’ll 
remember.” 

Hesitating a moment, Vera turned and left the 
room, her chin high. In the foyer she found Mrs. 

182 





VERA 

Doolan, wlio had on an ulster and a stiff, mannish 
hat. 

“ Going along? ” she queried pleasantly. “1*11 
go, too.” 

Vera nodded assent but gave no other answer and 
the woman fell into step beside her as she walked 
down the block toward the Vandermore. 

“ Look here,” Mrs. Doolan cried presently. “ I’ve 
watched you ever since you came to us. And I 
heard you saying good-bye to Mrs. Widderly. Say 
—you mustn’t be sore because she didn’t want to 
adopt you as a daughter. People like us can’t ex¬ 
pect to run around with people like them, you know. 
War times are different, but ordinarily . . . 

So, don’t get the society-bee, kid. It isn’t worth 
while.” 

People like us -! Vera wheeled on her sud¬ 

denly, her handsome eyes cold with anger. “ I leave 
you here, Mrs. Doolan. And eavesdropping is what 
I might have looked for in a person of your—stand¬ 
ing.” 

Somewhere, never far from Vera, there was the 
shade of a man in a striped suit, wearing yellow 
diamonds. He was a man with a cruel face, and 
he prompted her to do cruel things. Unfortunately 
she didn’t realize his presence. 

She was still angry when she reached her room. 
Society-bee! The insolence of the woman. . . . 

Yet there was still Edward Storm. 


183 



CHAPTER IV 


1 

Vera presently found that Edward Storm was, 
in fact, her one connection with that upper social 
stratum to which she had been so anxious to as¬ 
cend. Although, now that the war was over, she 
had had no word of any kind from the women in 
the league, Mr. Storm continued his attentions 
quite as assiduously as before. And Vera received 
his advances with a willingness that bordered on a 
sort of wistful eagerness. 

She spent long hours wondering if he were in 
love with her. Did men of his age ever really fall 
in love? Yet what did those vague hints mean that 
he threw out—about being lonely and missing the 
sympathy of a woman? Vera had had so little 
experience in affairs of the heart; she had never 
bothered with men before, because she had never 
known anyone well, who could have helped her to 
advance herself. Mr. Storm, she realized, was in a 
position to aid her vitally and if he were serious it 
would be very much worth her while to encourage 
him. 

He took her to lunch, to dinner; they attended 
the first nights of the plays quite regularly. And 
then, one day, he asked her to tea at his home. 

66 It’ll be perfectly all right,” he assured her. 

184 


VERA 


“ I’ve a housekeeper who is—well, she’s a middle- 
aged woman in reduced circumstances. Shell act 
as a chaperone if you wish.” 

Vera nodded decorously. The conventional as¬ 
pect of the situation hadn’t occurred to her. As a 
matter of fact, she considered Storm, himself, an 
excellent chaperone. 

“ I’ve been anxious to have you see my place for 
a long time,” he continued. “ I’ve a collection of 
bibelots that I think may interest you.” 

She liked that: his referring to his art objects as 
bibelots. It was as if they didn’t really matter, and 
yet Vera knew from Mrs. Doolan that they were 
worth several fortunes. 

“ Yes, I’m sure they’re fascinating,” she replied. 
“ And I’ve been hoping you’d ask me.” 

He laughed that too easy laugh of his, and airily 
swung his cane. 

Their afternoon stroll was, as usual, on Fifth. 
Vera always managed it so that they reached the 
Avenue at about four o’clock. She wanted to be 
seen by his friends; she wished to be with him when 
he bowed to these people to whom, eventually, she 
hoped he w T ould introduce her. 

They turned east at Sixty-third Street. Edward 
Storm’s house was between Madison and Park. It 
was rather an impressive gray stone building; a 
bit pompous, like him, Vera thought, and a bit out 
of date. But it was eminently “ upper-class ”; she 
quite approved of it. 


185 


MASQUES 

He opened the door with his key and she stepped 
inside. 

“ Isn’t this charming? ” She glanced about the 
tapestried hallway. “ It’s so wonderful to be in a 
home. I detest hotel life.” 

She had her hand to her cheek in the Barrymore 
pose. Her beauty, ordinarily of the brittle sort, 
was softened by the dimness of the hall light. 

Mr. Storm laughed, but in his narrow, hard eyes 
there was that calculating gleam. “ You like it? ” 
he asked. “ I hoped that you-” 

He broke off at the sound of an opening door at 
the back of the hallway. They both turned. A 
woman entered, who was dressed in black with se¬ 
vere white collar and cuffs. 

“ Oh, Miss Henny,” Storm turned back to Yera. 
“ This is Mrs. Dwight, my housekeeper, of whom I 
spoke to you. . . . Miss Henny is here for tea, 

Mrs. Dwight, so please tell the cook to-” 

Vera bowed coldly; she didn’t care for the idea 
of being introduced to a housekeeper. As she 
started up the stairs she called back to Storm: 
“ Aren’t you coming to show me your treasures? 
I can’t wait to see them, you know.” 

He followed her eagerly and at the landing ran 
ahead and flung wide the drawing-room doors. 
“ My little gallery,” he said. 

He stepped back and she went into the room. It 
was lined with glass cases in which reposed his 
various objects. Chinese carved ivory; Persian 

IS 6 




VERA 


pottery; a Barye sculpture; one of Rodin’s sketch¬ 
books; a piece of gold-work by Cellini; an entire 
case filled with figurines. 

Vera paused before the small clay figures. She 
had been watching Storm’s face; she had seen the 

light come as they reached this case. “ These-” 

she cried. “ These are exquisite. That one with 
the gold—I love it! ” 

He opened the case and taking out the figure to 
which she had pointed, he fondled it in his dry old 
hands. “ An original. You have excellent taste. 
A Tanagra.” He replaced it. “ Come,” he said. 
“ Sit over here. You must be tired after our walk, 
and the exhibition is over.” 

He led her to a divan by the window, the only 
piece of furniture in the room. As they seated 
themselves, Yera murmured: “It must be very 
hard, all this.” 

“ Hard ? ” 

“ I mean—isn’t it difficult to get competent serv¬ 
ants—people who can be responsible, with whom 
to entrust these things? How do you manage? ” 

He laughed. “ I don’t manage. Mrs. Dwight is 
trustworthy, but I never let anyone touch these. 
They’re too—too precious to me. . . . No, I 

have good servants, as far as that goes. But ”—he 
sighed—“ they aren’t very much company to me.” 

There he w T as . . . talking about his loneli¬ 
ness again. Vera speculated. . . . She saw 

herself at the head of this household, the wife of a 

187 



MASQUES 

man who had nothing to do in life hilt collect beau¬ 
tiful things for his own amusement. With her own 
good looks and with his position . . . 

She echoed his sigh. “ You shouldn’t complain/’ 
she remonstrated. “ You—with this home—this 
real home. Think of me, eking out my existence in 
a hotel. Is that an attractive picture? ” 

u Anything-” he leaned nearer to her so that 

the fine wrinkles about his eyes and mouth multi¬ 
plied under her close scrutiny. “ Any sort of pic¬ 
ture that had you as its central figure would be 
more than attractive, Miss Henny.” 

She drew away. His stilted compliment savored 
of the old school; a younger man would have put it 
differently. 

“ Now let me show you another picture—a beau¬ 
tiful young woman in a charming home, a gracious 
hostess with a place to entertain her many friends, 
and perhaps—a husband as a background to her 
brilliancy. Does that picture appeal, Miss 
Henny? ” 

She gazed at him warily. She supposed that he 
was proposing to her but he had a very stupid way 
of doing it. “ Oh, yes,” she replied coolfy. 
“ Why? ” 

“ Because ”—he came still closer to her—“ be¬ 
cause I’m asking you to make that picture real, 
Miss Henny. I want you to come into this house 
and be its head—as my wife. . . .” 

It was out at last, and her future was settled. 

188 




VERA 


She had decided definitely that she would accept 
him w T hen the time came, if it ever did come. Prob¬ 
ably she ought to show some sort of emotion now. 
But she didn’t feel any, unless that satisfaction that 
comes of accomplishment be counted as emotion. 

“ Will you, Miss Hcnny—Vera? ” 

She couldn’t bring herself to call him “ Ed.” As 
soon think of calling the Buddha, “ Buddy.” “ Yes, 
I will—Mr. Storm.” \ , - 

It w r as fortunate that Mrs. Dwight entered at 
that moment with the tea. Vera was spared the 
conventional kiss of affiance, and she hadn’t liked 
the feel of Storm’s bony arms about her shoulders. 

He didn’t seem disappointed in the least. He 
fell to on the tea and muffins, w T ith an easy laugh. 
That laugh was beginning to grate. . . . Vera 

wondered, silently, if she could ever cure him of it. 

o 

JU 

Edward Storm, alone at dinner on the night of 
his betrothal. Sipping his coffee with a pleased, 
slightly vacuous smile. Glancing at the empty 
chair opposite him, with that calculating gleam in 
his narrow eyes. The clever and discriminating 
connoisseur, and the half-fatuous, half-vapid lover. 

Only during the last two years had he searched 
for a wife. Before that time he hadn’t been in a posi¬ 
tion to find the sort of woman that he wanted. She 
must be charming, well-bred, capable, and she must 
show exceptional good taste in things artistic. It 

189 


MASQUES 

didn’t so much matter about her age. Anything up 
to forty would do, provided that the other quali¬ 
fications were met. 

He had offered himself first to a Miss Benton. 
She was an old maid of excellent New York family, 
who made up for her physical unattractiveness by 
the choice of becoming clothes. Decidedly passe 
from the male point of view, she was popular to a 
degree with the women of her acquaintance. The 
, papers always mentioned her as secretary of clubs 
and ticket-seller for amateur theatricals. She also 
did passable work in clay. 

The outcome of Storm’s courtship of Miss Benton 
was not according to his expectations. He had 
gone into the affair somewhat condescendingly, 
since he knew that the lady in question received no 
attention from any other men. He advised Miss 
Benton in regard to exhibiting her bits of sculp¬ 
ture, and she seemed duly appreciative. When, 
however, he approached the subject of marriage one 
evening, she broke into sudden, ingenuous laughter, 
and refused him on the spot. She apologized later 
for her reaction, but she never explained wdiy she 
laughed. 

After that, he had paid suit to a widow with a 
title. Failing with her, he had passed on to a 
debutante. And then, on the heels of the third dis¬ 
appointment, came Vera, and Vera had broken the 
succession. 

He made no pretense even to himself that he was 

190 


VERA 


really in love with her. But he felt a trifle fool¬ 
ishly sentimental. She had youth, and he had lost 
it. Perhaps, through her, his dry veins would flow 
again. And she was beautiful. . . . 

But for the most part, he was estimating her 
value to him. She had everything that he wanted; 
he was delighted with her. As a hostess she would 
be admirable; he could proudly introduce her as 
his wife. She was talented, cultured—and the epi¬ 
sode of the Tanagra figure had proved her discern¬ 
ment in Art. He heartily congratulated himself 
upon the termination of his two years’ pursuit. 

His coffee was finished, and still he sat at the 
table, imaging Vera across from him, speculating 
upon the probable impression she would make at a 
dinner-party. 

Mrs. Dwight, his housekeeper, interrupted, in the 
doorway. 

“ I beg your pardon. I wondered if you’d mind 
if I go out this evening? There’s a church social, 
and I thought-” 

Edward Storm laughed. " No. You go out and 
enjoy yourself.” He rose and crossed to her. “ I’m 
in a particularly agreeable frame of mind to-night, 
Mrs. Dwight. Probably I should have granted 
whatever you asked me—it wouldn’t have mattered 
what.” 

u H’mmm-? ” 

He twisted his waxed mustache. “Miss Vera 
Henny has consented to be my wife.” 

191 




MASQUES 

“ Oh.” Mrs. Dwight's firm mouth became firmer. 
“ You mean the young lady who was here this after¬ 
noon? ” 

“ Yes. Wish me joy! ” 

She hesitated. u Well, I do.” Her New England 
twang became emphatic. “ And I guess it's a good 
thing I'm going to church even if it is only a social 
—after some of the words that come into my head! ” 

It was quite natural for Mrs. Dwight to show 
jealousy. Storm didn't blame her for resenting the 
prospect of a new mistress. But how much more 
satisfactory to have his menage in Yera's hands! 
After Mrs. Dwight had gone, he continued, in a 
self-pleased way, to gloat. 

3 

Their engagement was a short but formal affair. 
Mr. Storm presented Yera with an enormous blue- 
white diamond which she accordingly "wore on the 
third tapering finger of her left hand. Announce¬ 
ments of the betrothal came out in the New York 
papers, which Yera devoured greedily. The date 
of the wedding was finally set, and she at once 
began to collect her trousseau. 

It was at Mme. Darquenne's one afternoon that 
she accidentally ran into Angela Day. Yera had 
just finished standing for a fitting and she was 
about to leave the shop when someone came dash¬ 
ing after her. 

“ Vee! Yee! Stop a minute! ” 

192 


VERA 


Vera turned at the familiar voice. “Why, 
Angela! How are you? So nice to see you! ” 

She contemplated the other girl coolly, curious 
to mark the changes in her. For this was, Vera 
saw at a glance, a new and utterly different Angela: 
there was a light in the frank eyes that hadn’t been 
there before, a tender tremulousness of the lips, a 
radiance in the expression. Vaguely Vera won¬ 
dered what had been the causes of the transforma¬ 
tion. 

“ Why haven’t I heard from you? ” Angela was 
demanding. “ What’s the news? Why haven’t you 
written? ” 

Vera smiled a trifle loftily. “ Haven’t you read 
the news? It’s been in all the papers. I’m en¬ 
gaged—didn’t you know? ” 

“No—Vera, really? To whom? Do I know 
him?” 

“ Edward Storm.” Vera shrugged. “ Possibly 
you do—he’s a member of the Iris Club.” 

“No, I don’t. But—the Iris Club? Perhaps 
George Warbridge knows him, then. I must ask 
him. . . . Vera, dear,” Angela took one of 

Vera’s cool hands and pressed it in her own, “ I’m 
so glad you’re happy.” Her eyes softened. “ I— 
I’m happy, too. I-” 

“Miss Day, your hat is ready to try on.” A 
salesgirl had stepped up and made the announce¬ 
ment. “ Mme. Darquenne is waiting for you.” 

“ Oh, dear! ” Angela exclaimed. “ Isn’t that too 

193 



MASQUES 

bad? I wanted to talk to you and now- But 

I can see you some other time, can’t I? Couldnt 
we arrange something? ” 

“ I’m being married next month,” Vera replied. 
“ Will you come to my wedding? I haven’t your 
address. You’ve moved, haven’t you? ” 

“ Yes. Grandmother and I are living on the 
West Side now. Three thousand, Riverside Drive, 
the address is. Do send me an invitation—I’d love 
to go! Good-bye! ” She hurried off, waving a 
jubilant farewell. 

The West Side . . . the Days living on the 
West Side. Perhaps it was just as well that she 
had broken off with Angela. Vera frowned as she 
stepped into Edward Storm’s waiting limousine. 

4 

As she entered the lobby of the Vandermore, 
Storm came forward to meet her. He had been 
seated in one of the upholstered chairs, facing the 
door. 

“Ah, my dear, you’re here at last. I’ve been 
waiting since three o’clock.” 

“Waiting? Why?” 

“ I told you that I’d attend to the engraving of 
the invitations, do you remember? Well, I stopped 
in at Gareth’s to arrange about it and discovered 
that I didn’t know how many we needed. I’ve made 
out a list of my friends, and if you’ll give me a list 
of yours, I’ll-” 


194 




VERA 


She felt a numbness about her brain just for the 
moment. But she regained her presence of mind 
almost at once. “ I’d rather attend to the matter 
myself, anyway. There’s a difference in the size of 
the paper and in the engraving, so if you don’t 

mind-? I think I prefer to choose.” She made 

a gesture toward the elevators. “ Are you coming 
up to the sitting-room? ” 

He assented eagerly. 

While the car shot skyward, she studied herself 
in the French mirror on the side wall. She was 
satisfied that she had extricated herself from an 
embarrassing situation with unusual savoir faire. 
It might have been disastrous if she had been forced 
to tell him the names of the friends whom she in¬ 
tended to invite to the wedding. Milly and Angela 
. . . there were just two. What would he have 

thought? Of course at the ceremony there would 
be so many people, he wouldn’t realize which were 
her guests and which were his own. She had de¬ 
cided not to have their friends separated in the 
usual way, so that she was safe on that score. 

When they were in her apartment, she threw off 
her hat and fur and sank into a chair. 

“ I’m tired. I’ve been standing for a fitting.” 

He didn’t answer. He seemed preoccupied. She 
noticed that he had kept one hand in his overcoat 
pocket ever since she met him in the lobby; in the 
other he carried a large book. He came toward her 
now, smiling. 


195 



MASQUES 

u A surprise for you. I ran across this little fel¬ 
low last week, and I remembered bow fond you 
were of the Pekingese at Koswyn.” 

He drew bis band from bis pocket and with it a 
tiny, round-eyed puppy. 

Vera eyed it askance. “ For—me? ” 

He nodded. “ Its father is Ta-Tao, Mrs. Wid- 
derly’s champion.” 

She supposed she must be enthusiastic, though 
she certainly had no desire for the care of a dog. 
She took the puppy from Storm, and laid him in 
her lap. 

“ Oh, thanks. Isn’t he cunning! ” 

On her knees the little Pekingese sat bolt up¬ 
right, gazing fixedly into her face. He was a tiny 
replica of his father except that his hair was fuz¬ 
zier—which gave him a babyish look,—and there 
was a round spot of white on his flat forehead. He 
had Ta-Tao’s intolerant manner of survey; his soft 
eyes rested on Vera with a certain contempt. 

Edward Storm bent and touched the dog’s fore¬ 
head. “ They call him ‘ White Jade ’ because of 
this spot. It’s quite unusual. It looks like one of 
those plaques, you know.” 

“ Yes. Isn’t that appropriate! ” 

She was trying her best to come up to expecta¬ 
tions. She wondered whether all her life she would 
be having to appear pleased with him, when in 
reality she wasn’t. She didn’t like dogs at all. 
Particularly she didn’t like this dog. 

196 


VERA 


She let White Jade slip from her lap, and rising, 
she went to put away her hat and neck-piece. When 
she returned Storm was sitting on the divan, glanc¬ 
ing through the large hook that he had brought. 
The book had colored leaves. 

“ Come here, Vera, will you, and look at these 
damasks? Do you think this green is better for 
the drawing-room, or would you care for a buff, 
like this? ” 

She crossed over, and sitting beside him, went 
through the samples with him. He was having the 
house done over for her, and she was glad, for it 
gave them something to talk about without being 
sentimental. Their engagement seemed quite 
largely a matter of arrangements. There was the 
house, and there were her clothes, and the honey¬ 
moon to decide upon. Once they were married, 
she hoped entertaining would take their minds up. 

But he kept her eternally long over the damasks. 
He had a way of deciding definitely on one thing, 
and just as he rose to go, suddenly changing his 
mind so that they had to go all through the book 
and choose again. At last he started off, only to 
come running back to her door after he had rung 
for the elevator. He w T anted to say good-bye to the 
dog. 

Once more he breathlessly returned. “ I nearly 

forgot-” he thrust a slip of white into her hand. 

“ The list—my friends, you know, for the wedding. 

Since you’re going to order the invitations-—” 

197 




MASQUES 

The elevator had come and he was finally gone. 

Vera turned back, relieved. The Pekingese 
moaned softly as she closed the door, and slunk 
away from her to the opposite side of the 
room. . . . 

A pity that Edward Storm couldn’t be more en¬ 
tertaining, as long as she had to marry him. But 
one couldn’t expect everything. She opened the 
folded list that he had given her: the Wainbrights, 
Widderlys, Currans, Merediths, Holts,—possibly 
two hundred names. They were well known, people 
of whom she had always heard. And they were 
coming to her wedding! 

Her incredible good-fortune struck her more 
forcefully than ever. She had worked for her suc¬ 
cess; she felt that she deserved it. And yet—and 
yet a kind Providence had placed this particular 
man in her path. The fact that he wasn’t young 
probably meant that he was even more influential. 

She took the list and waved it triumphantly at 
White Jade. 

“ See this! Who says Pm not—the real thing? 
I’ll make them accept me! I’ll-” 

But litter was the scorn in White Jade’s hazel 
eves. 


Vera made a great feint that she wished her wed¬ 
ding to be unusual, unique. There would be no 
attendants, no one to give her away. Nor would 

198 



VEKA 


she have a reception immediately following the 
ceremony; when she and Storm returned from their 
honeymoon they would entertain extensively, but 
not until then. 

All this, of course, simply because even though 
she wished she couldn't have had things otherwise. 
There wasn't anyone whom she could ask to act for 
this one day as her guardian; there were no girls 
to have as bridesmaids. And the reception would 
be far better postponed until a time when the ab¬ 
sence of her own friends would be less noticeable. 

She had chosen St. Anthony's because it was 
small and would look more crowded. Now, as she 
stepped from Storm's motor and made her way be¬ 
neath the awning up to the church door, she won¬ 
dered w T ho would be there. An usher met her in 
the vestibule and took her to the anteroom where 
she was to await the signal to march down the aisle. 

She glanced about. But this room was obviously 
used as a chapel; there was no evidence of a mirror. 
At any rate, she knew that she looked well: her 
veil, caught high at the crown of her head, gave her 
that goddess-like, Olympian air which she so ap¬ 
preciated in herself. And Mme. Darquenne had 
taken particular pains that the gown should prop¬ 
erly set off that symmetrical splendor of physique. 
Yes, her wedding clothes became her; she was glad 
of that. 

To-day she stood at the gateway of her brilliant 
future. When she was in Siam this was what she 

199 


MASQUES 

3iad imagined in her most fantastic dreams, and 
she had made it come true; she had proved forever 
that one could be master of one\s fate. 

She chose one of the pews, and spreading out 
her train, composedly waited. She was anxious for 
the signal for her to go into the nave, but she felt 
little nervousness. Only an eager curiosity, though 
not in regard to Edward Storm. After all, he 
meant so little in the matter except as a figure¬ 
head. But were the Widderlys out there—and the 
Holts? . . . She must keep her eyes alert and 

notice who had come. . . . 

The usher was at the door and the strains of the 
wedding march roared forth unexpectedly as he 
opened it. 

“ Ready, Miss Henny? Mr. Storm is at the 
altar.” 

Vera rose. . . . Who was this usher, and 

why was he so absurdly excited? . . . She 

stooped and arranged her train with steady fingers. 
Then, straightening, her proud head erect, and with 
measured step, she slowly swung out into the 
church and started down the aisle. 

Half-way to the altar she raised her gaze from 
the white lilies on her arm. As she did so, she 
stopped suddenly, and the color in her cheeks 
heightened to a deep carmine, her eyes became 
glazed. The church, except for a handful of men 
and women in the five front pews, w r as completely 
empty. 


200 


VERA 


Disconnected thoughts flashed through Vera’s 
mind in that half-second’s pause. ... A hor¬ 
rible mistake. . . . She had come too soon. 

. . . The Widderlys . . . 

Then she realized that those people up in front 
had turned, that the organ was still roaring its 
loud insistence, that Mr. Storm was awaiting her at 
the altar, with his gray mustache waxed more 
stiffly than ever, and that smile of his ... a 
bit frozen. 

Here comes the bride! 

See how she strides! 

See how she waddles from side to side! 

The words of the play-song that she had learned 
on the East Side as a child rang in her ears. Some¬ 
how she found herself at the altar and the music 
had stopped. 

“ Do you, Edward, take this woman, Vera-” 

The minister’s tone was like a chant; he mouthed 
the words and distorted them unintelligibly. 
Storm’s dry old hand clutched her cool one; his 
face with its gleaming, hard little eyes, was very 
near her own. 

“Ido . . . I will. . . .” 

Vera’s voice came frigidly calm. She had re¬ 
covered her composure to all outward appearances. 
Privately she was still trying to comprehend the 
situation. A dozen people—and she had sent out 
over two hundred invitations! 

201 



MASQUES 

She turned her head away; Storm’s breath was 
on her cheek. A girl had been seated in one of the 
side pews and Vera met her dark-circled eyes. It 
was Angela Day, pale, haggard, and stiff-lipped. 
With a shudder, Vera turned back to Storm. What 
had happened to Angela—had she suffered some 
loss? It was like gazing at a death’s head to look 
at her—an ill omen. 

“ I pronounce thee man and wife.” 

It was over, and Storm was kissing her, an old- 
fashioned, osculatory salute, that was eminently 
formal. Together they started up the aisle, and 
Vera, passing, roughly made an estimate. There 
were not over fifteen people in the church. Her 
wedding was a failure. . . . What did it mean? 

Grimly she determined that she would soon find 
out. 


202 


CHAPTER Y 


1 

They returned to the Vandermore after the cere¬ 
mony; they were to leave for Lake Placid in the 
evening. During the few blocks’ ride between St. 
Anthony’s and the hotel, there had been few words 
between them. Storm still wore the frozen look 
about his mouth; the red spots in each of Vera’s 
cheeks were hard and bright. 

But in the apartment, Vera closed the door 
sharply and faced Storm. 

“ Give me some explanation. I sent out two hun¬ 
dred invitations to your friends. Where were they? 
Why didn’t they come? ” 

His calculating eyes met hers. “ Where were 
your friends? ” 

She hadn’t thought of his countering her ques¬ 
tion. “ Oh, my friends-” Vera faltered. 

“ Well, you see—a great many of them happened 
to be out of town. Palm Beach and—and Miami. 
It was unfortunate.” 

“ Very.” 

She shrugged impatiently. u But that doesn’t 
answer my question. What’s wrong with you that 
the people you know didn’t come to your wedding? ” 

Her expression, in spite of the softening effect 

203 



MASQUES 

of white veil and gown, was anything but bride¬ 
like. Her handsome mouth firm and uncompromis¬ 
ing, her cold eyes angry. 

He tried to give one of his easy laughs, and failed. 
“ I’ll answer that question if you'll tell me this: 
why did you marry me, Vera? ” 

“ Oh—what does it matter? What does anything 

matter now, if you’re-” Her voice held a note 

of despair. “ Yes. I’ll tell you why I married you. 
It was because I thought you knew the Widderlys 
and the Wainbrights and that you were intimate 
with them. All my life I’ve wanted to know people 
like that. And then you came along, and you asked 
me to marry you. It was too good an opportunity 
to let pass.” 

“ But—but you wanted to-? Why, you spoke 

of your family as if they had always gone in so¬ 
ciety! I knew they were dead, but I thought-” 

“ I know what you thought. But it isn’t true. 
You might as well understand that now.” Vera 
threw herself dejectedly into a chair. Her veil 
caught on the carving and she tore it off and flung 
it aside. u My mother used to keep a boarding¬ 
house on East Eighty-fourth Street. My stepfather 
had money and he sent me to a fashionable school 
here in Hew York. Since then I’ve never been sat¬ 
isfied with the things that I came from.” 

She had dropped her masque; she was suddenly 
weary of this useless pretense. 

And then White Jade appeared, crawling from 

204 





VERA 


boneatli the divan. He stayed as far as possible 
from Vera, glaring at her with his round, scornful 
eyes. 

She turned to Storm, who was nervously twisting 
his waxed mustaches. She felt that she disliked 
him and that miserable dog more than anything she 
had ever known. “ You haven’t yet answered my 
question.” 

“ No.” He threw up his hands. “ Well, I’m will¬ 
ing to be frank, too. There doesn’t seem to be any 
other way out. I married you for precisely the 
same reason that you married me. It would be 
rather funny, if it weren’t so—tragic.” 

“ I don’t understand.” 

“ You told me that you v/ere working at the 
league with Mrs. Widderly and I saw you with 
some of the other women. Of course, in my trade, I 
become acquainted with these people—but that list 
that I gave you was really a list of my patrons. I 
thought that you- 

“Your trade-?” Vera’s tone was pointed 

ice. 

“ Yes. My art objects—I sell them, you know— 
they appeal to people of that type. But I haven’t 
been successful with them socially. I was hoping 
that you-” 

“ But—the Iris Club? ” 

He shrugged and twisted one end of his waxed 
gray mustache. “ An affair between Thurlow 
Wainbright and myself. He owed me several thou* 

205 





MASQUES 

sand; lie put me up at the club, and I let the matter 
drop. No one knows, of course.” 

Vera’s mind clutched at the startling facts. Ed¬ 
ward Storm was a “ nobody ”... he 'wasn’t a 
dilettante ... he wasn’t even an honorable 
member of the Iris Club ... he was an ordi¬ 
nary art-dealer! 

“ You deceived me, didn’t you? ” 

“ Oh, come now,” Storm remonstrated. “ You 
deceived me, too, you know.” 

It was perfectly true. She had tricked him, had 
made him believe her what she was not. It wasn’t 
for her to accuse him, she saw that now. 

“ Well, what’s to be done? ” 

He turned to her with that touch of the old school 
formality. “ That rests entirely with you,” he re¬ 
plied, adding: “ Perhaps—a divorce-” 

A divorce? Didn’t he know that a course like 
that would completely ruin them both? . . . 

Across the room, White Jade suddenly sneezed. 
The sneeze sounded like a laugh. Vera shuddered. 

o 

In the end she "went with him to his house on 
Sixty-third Street. A divorce was out of the ques¬ 
tion, she told him; the position of a divorcee was 
more difficult than any other. She had the feeling 
ever afterward that she was forcing herself upon 
him, that he considered he had made a bad bargain 
and was anxious to try to cancel it. 

206 



VERA 


She hadn’t entirely given up the hope of fulfill¬ 
ing her ambitions. During the months following 
her wedding she sent out a number of invitations to 
small dinners. They were invariably refused. 

Storm had handed over the freedom of his house 
to Vera; she was absolute mistress, and she used 
her authority to its capacity. Mrs. Dwight left 
soon after Vera arrived and the servant problem, 
without a housekeeper, became complex. 

Life, in these days, bored Vera excessively. 
Storm was never disagreeable, she couldn’t com¬ 
plain of his treatment of her. He was simply un¬ 
interesting, and old, and she despised him. 

Continuing to reach up in every possible way to 
the plane that she had so nearly attained, Vera’s 
hopes brightened as she came upon George War- 
bridge’s name among the new members of the Iris 
Club. She pointed it out to Storm. 

“ He used to be a friend of Mildred Fahnstock’s,” 
she explained. “Don’t you think you could hunt 
him up and ask him in to tea? ” 

Storm nodded eagerly. “ I might try. I could 
stroll in at the club and ask for him. Say that you 
used to know him, and then just casually suggest 
his coming over to see you.” 

Crammed with final instructions, Edward Storm 
went out the next day, in search of the coveted Mr. 
War bridge. 

He had no difficulty in finding him. The club- 
boy led Storm to a large plush chair in one corner 

207 


MASQUES 

of the lounge, where George was forlornly slumped, 
looking at a Chicago Tribune with unseeing eyes. 
His cravat was carelessly tied, and there was a 
button off one of his spats. Storm wasn’t favorably 
impressed by Warbridge’s appearance, but he sup¬ 
posed that Yera knew what she was doing. 

“ Mr. Warbridge? ” Storm began. “ I’m Edward 
K. Storm, Yera Henny’s husband.” 

George Warbridge pushed himself to his feet, and 
peremptorily held out his hand. u Yera Henny’s 
husband?—I’m glad to meet you.” 

Storm bowed. “ My wife tells me that you used 
to know her years ago when she was in school with 
Mildred Fahnstock and Angela Hay.” 

“ Angela Hay? Your wife know Angela Hay? ” 
Warbridge’s beady eyes fixed themselves upon 
Storm’s face with an impressive stare. “ Take me 
to her. I’d like to see your wife.” 

This was certainly more than Storm had looked 
for. He grasped at the opportunity anxiously. “ I 
think Yera’s at home now. Suppose we see? It’s 
only a few blocks.” 

Without waiting for Warbridge to assent, he 
took him by the arm, and led him out to the door. 
George had some difficulty in getting into his over¬ 
coat and Storm was politely solicitous. 

As they walked down the block together, War- 
bridge talked incessantly. 

“ I was fond of Angela Hay. But she didn’t like 
me. I don’t know what was the matter. I loved 

208 


VERA 

her, I did. She was the sweetest girl I ever knew. 
She-” 

Storm’s eyes narrowed. This w r as an odd sort 
of chap. To meet a man one minute and to tell 
him his troubles the next. Probably an eccentric. 

“ Yes, sir! I’ve known her ever since she was a 
little girl, and she was always nice to me. Then all 
of a sudden she wouldn’t see me any more. I don’t 
know why,—what do you suppose is the matter 
with me, huh? ” 

For the first time Storm began to realize just 
what was the matter with George. He edged nearer 
to him. Unmistakably the odor of liquor emanated 
from Warbridge. Though he walked as straight as 
an arroAV, he was drunk, nobly, garrulously drunk. 

And now, what was there to do? Storm studied 
the question from all angles. If Warbridge was an 
inebriate he couldn’t be of much use to him and 
Vera. But if this was a rare occurrence, he might, 
when he came to his senses, feel it necessary to 
repay Storm for keeping the matter unknown. 

But George decided the problem himself. “ She’s 
spoiled my life, she has,” he continued soberly. “ I 
was a fine respected member of the community, I 
was. And now, what am I? I’m an old soak, that’s 
what I am. Nobody likes me. I’m a soak.” 

He turned to the older man, self-sympathy mois¬ 
tening his small black eyes. 

But Storm smiled blandly. “ I’m sorry, I’m sure. 
And—and by the way—I just remembered that my 

209 



MASQUES 

wife isn’t at home this afternoon, after all. She 
had some sort of reception on, I believe.” 

“ Blit she used to know-” 

“ I’m sorry.” Storm perforce shook Warbridge’s 
hand. “Perhaps some other time? Well—good- 
day ! ” 

Airily swinging his cane he went off, leaving 
George Warbridge to stare blankly after him. 

“ But—blit she used to know Angela Day! ” 
Weakly, the tears rolled down his stodgy cheeks. 


3 

Vera was awaiting him at tea. It had been 
crossly served by a new maid who was leaving the 
next day. Vera was despondent. 

As Storm entered the drawing-room alone, she 
glanced up. “ You couldn’t find him? ” 

“ I found him, all right.” He recounted his ex¬ 
perience. “ So, that’s just another blind alley, you 
see,” he finished. 

Vera passed her hand across her eyes. She was 
fearfully, bitterly discouraged. “ I am the master 

of my fate-” had she ever dared to think such 

a thing? She knew better now. . . . 

Still, presently, Vera once more took heart for 
her struggle. Two things happened that gave her 
encouragement. 

In the first place, she discovered that Alice Clay¬ 
ton was interested in dogs. 

Alice was another Shelborough girl, of the same 

210 




VERA 


class as Vera. They hadn’t been intimate in school, 
but Vera had watched the other girl’s progress ever 
since graduation. And now, when Vera saw, in 
House and Garden, that Alice was exhibiting 
“ Pekes,” it opened up a new channel of thought to 
her. 

White Jade, now, was almost the age to be shown. 
With such excellent ancestry, surely he must be 
worthy. Little as she knew about dogs, she rec¬ 
ognized the marks of a champion in him. And 
when she had him privately judged, her assump¬ 
tions were proved. 

But Vera had no desire to show him. She 
wanted Alice Clayton to do that part, and she 
wanted Alice out of gratitude, to introduce her into 
her own set in society. Vera would give her White 
Jade, and she would expect Alice to do the rest in 
return for her generosity. 

But how to get hold of Alice? It would seem 
strange for her to call on the Claytons after all 
these years. She couldn’t do that. Vera racked 
her brain for a natural way to insert herself into 
Alice’s life. 

One day, the morning mail unexpectedly solved 
the difficulty. The arrival of the invitation to the 
Shelborough five-yearly reunion. She had forgot¬ 
ten completely about it. 

“ Dr. and Mrs. Albert De Lancey Shelborough 
request the pleasure of the company of the class of 

211 


MASQUES 

Nineteen Hundred Sixteen at luncheon on Friday, 
May the tenth.” 

R. S. V. P. 

And Alice Clayton would he there! How ab¬ 
surdly simple it would be to interest her in White 
Jade, to follow up that interest later and to carry 
out the plan. 

If she had never thought highly of Shelborough, 
Vera appreciated her Alma Mater now. 

4 

On the day before the reunion, Vera took White 
Jade out for a walk. She had grown more careful 
of him, during the last few weeks; she wanted him 
to be in good condition when she gave him to Alice. 

She started out, down Fifth Avenue. It was 
warm, for May, and she walked slowly, stopping 
occasionally at the shop-windows. At Scrivener’s 
she paused unusually long. There were some pam¬ 
phlets on the drama, displayed, that caught her at¬ 
tention. As she was turning away, she saw the 
name on the cover of a book at one end of the 
window: The Upper Ten, by Angela Day —it 
stared her in the face. Could that be her Angela? 
There weren’t two people of that name, surely. 
Vera’s face stiffened. So, Angela had succeeded. 
. . . Angela had done what she had started out 

to do. 

Abruptly she stepped inside and bought the book. 

212 


VERA 


If she were to attend the reunion to-morrow, she 
ought to read the thing before then. Coming out¬ 
doors, again, she turned up-town. She would go to 
the park, let White Jade loose from his leash, and 
spend the remainder of the afternoon glancing 
through The Upper Ten . 

She entered the park at Fifty-ninth Street, and 
she chose a secluded spot where the children 
wouldn’t disturb her. 

“ White Jade—come here! I’m only going to 
set you free! ” 

Why did that horrid dog always slink away 
from her? There, now she had loosed him. 

She was distinctly disappointed in the book. A 
tale of society life, and though seemingly it was 
utterly serious, there was an undercurrent of hu¬ 
mor between the lines that appeared to say: “ Isn’t 
all this absurd—and futile? ” 

That point of view irritated Vera. If society 
was futile, then why was it so monstrously difficult 
to enter? If Angela had only known the gruel¬ 
ling discouragement of trying to better one’s self 
and always being pushed back, relentlessly balked 
at every turn! 

She stayed on, reading, until the sunlight grew 
too dim to continue. Then she closed the book, 
and whistled for White Jade. He came toward her, 
hesitant, and she slipped the collar over his head. 

As she walked across town to Madison, her mind 
was still occupied with Angela’s novel. 

213 


MASQUES 

What would it be like, she wondered, to be ac¬ 
tually one of those people who were born and bred 
to the sort of life that she was still determined she 
would achieve? Would one ever really appreciate 
one’s good-fortune? Or would it be taken for 
granted, possibly scoffed at, as Angela scoffed? 

She reached the Avenue, and at the same moment, 
the leash on her wrist grew suddenly lighter. She 
glanced dow T n, and saw the empty collar at her 
feet. WJiite Jade had escaped. 

In a rush, it came to her: if she lost White Jade, 
she lost her ambitions forever. He was the straw 
at which she was so desperately clutching. Fran¬ 
tically, she looked about, at the stoops of the houses, 
the doorways of the store, out into the street. . . . 

The clang of a trolley, and a streak of bewildered 
tan fluff on the rail—Vera screamed. It was her 
future that was going to be ground under those 
ruthless wheels of the car—her hopes, her very 
life! 

Swiftly she dashed out in front of the trolley, 
attempted to push the small tan body from the 
track,—and caught her high French heel in the 
rail. . . . 

A Spiegelschultz, she died. 


* 


214 


BOOK III 
ANGELA 




CHAPTER I 


1 

To Angela Hay, at nineteen, Life seemed a study 
in black and white. There was no middle tone; a 
thing was either entirely right, or else it was quite 
utterly wrong. And she, Angela, knew the differ¬ 
ence. Grandmother Day had shown her. 

Mrs. Josiah Day, seventy, patrician from her 
parted, cloud-white hair to her common-sense shoes, 
w'as a decisive character. Her deep voice, which 
had almost the quality of a man’s, carried convic¬ 
tion. And she had implanted certain facts in the 
eager mind of her granddaughter at an early and 
impressionable age, facts that had adhered and 
had become a part of Angela. Or perhaps, even 
more, Angela had become a part of them. . . . 

“ A thing is either true or untrue. There isn’t 
such a thing as a 6 white lie.’ 

“ Don’t believe just because your ancestors wore 
gold lace that you are a superior being. The only 
good there is in a family tree is to make you 
ashamed to dishonor it. 

“You aren’t a beauty, Angela. If any woman 
tells you that you are, you may be sure she’s a back¬ 
biter. If any man says you’re pretty, you’ll know 
either that he’s a flirt or else he’s in love with you. 

217 


MASQUES 

a Tlie curse of this generation is broad-minded¬ 
ness, which is usually cowardliness. Don’t be 
afraid to be narrow when it comes to a question 
of morality. . . .” 

So, Angela, at nineteen, was not beautiful, and 
she knew it. She was too pale and her features 
weren’t regular. But her hair . . . she made 

the most of that. She wore pastel shades that set 
off its dull terra-cotta lights; she dressed it simply, 
in a loose twist at the crown of her head, a coiffure 
that displayed its quantity. And her eyes, wide-set 
and frank, were of an indefinable color, sad of ex¬ 
pression except when she laughed, or when some¬ 
thing struck her as amusing. And so far, she had 
found a great deal in the world that was amusing. 

The resemblance between Angela and old Mrs. 
Day, then, w r as rather more spiritual than physical. 
The same stiff New England standards, the same 
humorous kindliness. But whereas Mrs. Day even 
in her tenderest moments was abrupt in manner, 
Angela’s attitude was at all times one of gentleness. 
When she was firmest she was possibly the most 
feminine. 

She had been brought up by Grandmother Day— 
“ Nanna,” as she called her. Angela’s parents had 
died of the influenza in 1900 and she could scarcely 
remember them. Since then, “ Nanna ” had been 
mother and father and, best of all, friend. Mrs. 
Day’s vanity concerning her age had made her all 
the more companionable; she would go anywhere 

218 


ANGELA 


at any time, if only to prove lier constant declara¬ 
tion that no one need think her dead yet, that she 
was still very much alive, thank you. She had 
quite as much vitality as Angela, and three times 
the amount of energy. It wasn’t difficult, there¬ 
fore, for her to he persuaded to take a trip to Cali¬ 
fornia once Angela had finished school. It would 
have been far more difficult to hold her back. 

But at first she pretended reluctance. She had 
never travelled to any extent, nor had Angela. It 
was a big undertaking. After a series of argu¬ 
ments, of the inevitable outcome of which both 
Angela and her grandmother were perfectly aware, 
they finally closed their house. Angela had ter¬ 
minated the debate by the suggestion that the trip 
might prove too strenuous for the older woman. 
They had started west almost immediately after 
that. 

Chicago, first; they only stayed three days. Mrs. 
Day adored the theaters—there were several plays 
running that were due to open in New York at a 
later date and she felt as though she were beating 
time to have already seen them. Then, too, she 
would have been perfectly content to spend a week 
simply wandering about Marshall Field’s. But 
Angela was impatient, and they had decided, by mu¬ 
tual consent, to leave and go on, as soon as one or 
the other tired of any place. 

u Nanna, Chicago is such a c try to be’—I hate it. 
Like a high school girl dressed up in ‘ vampire ’ 

219 


MASQUES 

style. Let’s go somewhere that is just itself—and 
different from New York.” 

They moved on to San Francisco. But here Mrs. 
Day was dissatisfied. 

“ So many Chinamen and all kinds of yellow peo¬ 
ple leering at you if you step out of the hotel. Ugh! 
Might as well live in Asia and be done with it! ” 

Not until Santa Barbara did the Days find Cali¬ 
fornia. Then month hazily succeeded month and 
they were lost in the joy of shadowy eucalyptus 
trees against the turquoise of sky and sea. Only 
the keenest necessity at last brought that heavenly 
interlude to a close. And then, simultaneously, 
Angela’s vision of life took on more neutral tones. 

2 

But not the tropical scenery, nor even the quaint¬ 
ness of the town was all that kept Angela in Santa 
Barbara. She was interested in people, first and 
foremost; her chief diversion had always lain in 
the study of character. Here she found an excel¬ 
lent, a willing victim. And she found Margerie. 

The hotel where Mrs. Day and she had intended 
to stay was, they found, a mile inland. They ac¬ 
cordingly went to a small boarding-house on the 
beach. But after their first meal they were decid¬ 
edly glad that they had made that choice, even 
though the food was somewhat imbalanced as to 
calories and somewhat scant as to quantity. 

There were eight at dinner that night; six at the 

220 


ANGELA 


larger table. Mr. and Mrs. Joyce, a young married 
couple, were charming, frivolous motor enthusiasts. 
Their little girl, Margerie, ate at a small table in 
the corner, with her colored nurse. Angela 
secretly made eyes at the child, and during the meal 
they exchanged giggles. She was a fascinating elf, 
plump, with straight yellow hair and ruddy skin, 
and she had a loud, boisterous laugh that seemed 
to annoy her young mother. 

Then there was a Miss O’Brien, who spoke seldom 
and was given to staring. Mrs. Joyce told Angela 
later that she was a retired motion picture actress. 
Extremely thin, with purplish rouge on her drawn 
and wasted cheeks. Angela tried, thereafter, to 
avoid her as much as possible; there was nothing 
particularly interesting about her, she was a com¬ 
mon type. But there was something rather re¬ 
pugnant ; it was as if she had painted her face with 
her cosmetics, like a bill-board, simply to advertise 
the sort of woman that she was. 

But Derek Porter Seville. . . . They hadn’t 

been seated five minutes before Angela nudged her 
grandmother under the table and glanced hard in 
his direction. As though anyone could possibly 
have overlooked him. 

It was young Mrs. Joyce who had spoken first. 
She leaned across her husband, w T ho was seated be¬ 
tween Mrs. Day and herself and asked with a pretty, 
but forced smile: 

“ You had a pleasant day to travel, didn’t you? ” 

221 


MASQUES 

Mrs. Day, who had been occupied at the moment 
in trying to decide whether it was noodle soup or 
a mistake in the consomme, looked up with a start. 

“ Oh—yes, yes. Quite.” 

u Which way did you come—from the south or 
north? ” 

“ San Francisco.” 

“ San Francisco!” Mrs. Joyce’s pretty, vapid 
face showed polite interest. “ Really? ” She gave 
an upward glance at her husband. “ That’s our 
home,” she smiled. 

Mrs. Day endeavored to mirror her interest, 
though inwardly she felt no particular excitement 
over the news. And Mrs. Joyce’s husband broke 
into the dialogue. 

“ How did you like San Francisco? ” 

A simple question in itself, but for a truthful 
woman, a sticker. Mrs. Day coughed to gain time. 

“ Of course it’s—why, it’s-” she glanced help¬ 

lessly at Angela. 

“ You see we were there such a short time, we 
didn’t really get to know San Francisco,” Angela 
interrupted quickly. “ Sometime we’ll have to go 
back and become better acquainted.” 

The Joyces smiled across at Angela, who smiled 
blandly back, and Mrs. Day gave her a look of open 
admiration. There was silence again until the next 
course, when Mrs. Joyce once more opened the con¬ 
versation. 

“ I think we ought to introduce ourselves, don’t 

222 



ANGELA 


you? ” she asked sweetly. “ It's awkward, not to 
know one another's names. . . . I'm Mrs. 
James Joyce. My husband, Mr. Joyce.” 

“ My name is Day. Mrs. Josiah Day. And this 
is my granddaughter, Miss Day.” 

Mrs. Joyce acknowledged the introductions and 
went on with her presentation of the two other 
guests. 

“ Mrs. Day and Miss Day—Miss O'Brien. And 
Mr. Seville—Mr. Derek Porter Seville.” 

She slid over the introduction of the actress and 
passed quickly on to the young man. At his name 
he twittered an eager, “ How do you do—charmed, 
I'm sure—how do you do? ” and half rose from his 
seat. 

He was, in fact, a twittering sort of young man. 
Small, slight, smooth-shaven, with pink cheeks and 
nervous gestures that were dainty, like those of a 
woman. When he raised his glass to his cupid's- 
bow lips it was as though it were a chaliced flower. 
He was probably twenty-eight or thirty, Angela de¬ 
cided, though at first glance he looked almost a boy. 
And it was evident that he considered himself irre¬ 
sistible from the point of view of the opposite sex. 

He began on Angela almost at once, much to her 
private delight. Under cover of the conversation 
which had recommenced between the Joyces and 
Mrs. Day, he turned to her. 

“Is this your first visit to California? Isn’t it 
charming? I simply revel in the palms and 

223 


MASQUES 

oranges, don’t you? You must let me motor you 
about.” 

“ Thanks.” Angela tried to keep her eyes sober. 
“ Yes. It’s our first trip. And I do—love it.” 

“ I came up here from Los Angeles. Rather 
fagged out, I was—overwork, the doctors told me. 
But a month of this air. I say! It puts the red 
blood in a man’s veins, you know. I believe I could 
move some of these fascinating old purple moun¬ 
tains, eh? ” 

His voice, naturally high, broke when he waxed 
enthusiastic. Miss O’Brien had fixed him with a 
hard glare that was full of a superior scorn, but he 
was completely engrossed with Angela. 

“ And you must let me take you through the old 
mission. Have you ‘done’ any of the missions? 
No? How wonderful! You’ll adore this one. 
Quite a remarkable specimen, with the real monks 
in costume, and all that sort of thing. Oh, fasci¬ 
nating ! ” 

He went on to describe the beauties of the sur¬ 
rounding country, making his remarks, impersonal 
though they were, seem almost like direct compli¬ 
ments by his flatteringly attentive manner. Angela 
drank in his conversation, led him on with a quiet, 
appreciative word now and then. ... If only 
Nanna would listen to him, instead of talking to the 
Joyces, who were pleasant enough, but just like 
everyone else. 

Later, in their room, Angela sat on the bed and 

224 


ANGELA 


rocked back and forth in convulsive mirth as she 
repeated his words to her grandmother. 

“ ‘ How adorable! Isn’t it fascinating? Oh, 
charming! ’—Nanna, you missed it! And he seems 
to have deigned to flatter me with his august atten¬ 
tions. If only-” she paused and cast her eyes 

with mock seriousness heavenward. “ If only I 
can i hold ’ his love for a little while. I’d hate to 
lose him now—he’s too rich—glory! ” 

“ Be careful the man doesn’t really fall in love 
with you,” Mrs. Day warned drily. “ Sometimes 
they make a fearful fuss when they’re rejected. 
Don’t get in any deeper than you mean to.” 

But Angela laughingly started to undress. 
“ Don’t worry, darling.” 

She unpinned her hair and it fell in a reddish 
aura about her pale features. 

u And did you see that darling child? ” she 
demanded presently. “ Oh, I’m going to like this 
place, Nanna,” she declared. “ I know I’m going 
to like this place! ” 


Long after Angela fell asleep that night, Mrs. 
Day lay quietly in the dark. 

She had brought up her granddaughter strictly, 
and the time had come when she must learn a more 
complete independence. For, fight as she would 
against old age, Mrs. Day felt most definitely the 
approach of its outstretched hand. Angela, some- 

225 



MASQUES 

time in tlie future, might very probably be left 
alone; they must be prepared for that emergency. 

The question of how to effect this change had 
been a puzzling one. There was always the possi¬ 
bility of sending Angela away to some unconven¬ 
tional western college. But with the ever-shorten¬ 
ing years ahead, Mrs. Day was greedy for her 
granddaughter’s company. 

The suggestion of the trip to the coast had been 
the solution of the problem. Mrs. Day put all the 
finances of the entire journey into Angela’s hands. 
Angela was to arrange for accommodations at the 
hotels, to make all train reservations. That was 
the beginning of the school of independence. 

But Santa Barbara offered a different sort of 
pedagogy. Here was a group of persons, nicely 
assorted, an ideal number of strangers by means 
of whom Angela could learn the art of choosing 
friends. All sorts of events might come out of her 
contact with these people; if her grandmother 
watched, putting in a word of advice but never 
actually interfering, perhaps this might prove the 
very sort of training that Angela most needed to 
complete her course. 

“ I’m going to like this place, Nanna. I Jcnow 
I’m going to like this place. . . ” 

Mrs. Day turned on her side and closed her eyes. 
She prayed that Santa Barbara might like Angela, 
might be of benefit to her in strengthening and 
tautening the supple lines of her character. 

226 


ANGELA 


4 

From tlie first, Angela and her grandmother fell 
into a routine. Mrs. Day passed her mornings 
“ hiking ” along the shore; her afternoons she spent 
pleasantly on the boarding-house porch, with a bit 
of fine embroidery. She was immensely proud of 
her excellent eyesight; she scorned anything but 
the most delicate handiwork. 

And Angela read. Bead all the things that she 
hadn't had time for during the years that Addi¬ 
son’s Spectator, The Odyssey (in translation), 
The Canterbury Tales, The Vicar of Wakefield ,— 
had been forced upon her unwilling intellect. 

Hardy, Meredith, Henry James, she read them all 
with a hungry eagerness. Particularly Henry 
James. For he never stepped beyond the bounds 
of even her own rigid conservatism. Wells, she 
liked—with reservations. But she didn’t trust 
him; he was likely to be outrageous without warn¬ 
ing. Mr. James, though, w T as like a member of the 
family; he was altogether safe and one could quite 
depend upon him. 

But the study of life was far more interesting 
than that of fiction, always. 

She spent her mornings in the sand, playing with 
Margerie Joyce. Mr. and Mrs. Joyce motored 
most of the time, and left the four-year-old child in 
the care of her indolent colored nurse. Angela 
found herself watching the gyrations of the imma¬ 
ture mind, trying to comprehend it, trying at times 

227 


MASQUER 

to guide it into the right channels; to interpret life 
to the small intellect in simple, truthful terms,— 
a difficult, absorbing task. It made Angela wonder 
how a mother like young Mrs. Joyce could possibly 
leave her child in the ignorant care of the colored 
nurse. How she could pass days away while her 
baby was spending the love that should have been 
hers upon an utter stranger like Angela, herself! 
It was unbelievable. 

“ Build me a howus an’ den tell who does live in 
it! ” 

Margerie’s demands were insatiable, but Angela 
didn’t mind. The feel of the child’s warm body 
wriggling in her arms, the sound of her gurgling 
laughter and “ Oh, dat’s funneee! ” in her happy 
baby voice were reward enough. For Margerie was 
the first child that Angela had ever really known. 
Before, she had stared at the babies in Central Park 
with longing eyes, but that was as near as she had 
come to them. 

Nothing could have induced Angela to give up 
her mornings with Margerie. Nothing, that is, 
except the presence of Miss O’Brien. Once she had 
gone to the beach and had found the actress down 
on her thin knees, beside the child. And she had 
seen Miss O’Brien bend swiftly and kiss one of the 
ruddy round cheeks. Angela had shuddered at 
that, and had gone silently away. It seemed so 
dreadful that such a woman should touch Margerie. 
. . . Angela couldn’t endure the sight. 

228 


*v 


ANGELA 


She saw a great deal of Mr. Seville. He took lier 
frequently to the grill of the larger hotel in the 
evenings; his dancing was in accord with his other 
graces. Then she went motoring with him in his 
low-slung, mauve-colored car. But she enjoyed 
him most of all Avhen he sat beside her in the sand 
and talked to her in his high, excited voice of Life 
and Art and all the other abstract things that be¬ 
gin w 7 ith capitals. 

He followed her dow r n to the beach one day about 
a month after her arrival in Santa Barbara. She 
was reading, and his narrow shadow 7 fell across the 
pages of her book. 

“ I’m going to be a perfect pest. I’m going to 
interrupt you.” 

He tossed a brief-case that he wus carrying on 
the sand, and flung himself lightly down, w T ith a 
delicate sort of abandon. “ Will you think me 
most awfully rude?” he twittered. “Fact is, I’m 
lonesome, you know.” 

Angela closed her book and turned to him with 
smiling eyes. “As bad as that?” 

“ Oh, infinitely worse! ” 

“ Well, there’s always Grandmother. She was 
on the porch embroidering. You needn’t have come 
w T ay down here for company—if you simply wanted 
someone to talk to.” 

“Don’t be so practical, dear Miss Day! You 
know why I came here. I wanted to talk—to you.” 

His tone w T as so replete with sentimental meaning 

229 


MASQUES 

that Angela almost laughed. But she turned away 
and studied the horizon sternly in order that he 
might go on. 

He began again presently. “The blue of your 
frock exactly matches the sea, to-day. Did you 
know? ” 

“Yes.” Angela nodded without turning. “I 
took a small bottle of it with me when I bought the 
dress.” 

“ Ha! ” Mr. Seville gave his high laugh. “ You’re 
so ironical! But, seriously though—I love cool 
shades. Pleasant, unemotional colors like that of 
the sea and the gray of this sand, don’t you? ” 

“ Uh-huh.” 

“ Here in California things are so vivid. Crim¬ 
son, purple, jade-green. I love it too—for a change. 
But I wonder if so much brightness wouldn’t pall in 
a lifetime? You like California, don’t you? ” 

For the first time Angela turned to him with 
earnest enthusiasm. “ It’s heavenlv. It’s like a 
dream. Not the Freudian kind, but the real thing, 
the sort they write song-ballads about. It’s all 
perfect—except for the movie-people.” 

“ You object to them? ” 

“Decidedly. . . . We saw a great many of 

them in San Francisco—I suppose we shall see 

even more in Los Angeles. But even they-” she 

waved them aside with one slim, straight-fingered 
hand. “ Even they can’t spoil this loveliness! ” 

“ Did anyone ever tell you that you’d i screen ’ 

230 



ANGELA 

well? I should think you would.” He harped 
back to the personal again. 

Angela shrugged. “Acting is about the last 
thing I’d care to do—even if I could. Sometime— 
I—I want to write. I’m not ready yet. I don’t 

know enough. But some day-” she broke off. 

“ Mr. Seville, I’ve suspected you since the first— 
you’re a writer, aren’t you? ” 

He started and the pink in his cheeks deepened. 
“ Mercy, no! ” he exclaimed. “ Whatever gave you 
that idea, Miss Hay? ” 

Angela couldn’t very well reply that she had 
never met any writers, but that she had always 
imagined them to be about as queer as he, so she 
pointed toward his brief-case. “Well, you carry 
that around so much. And sometimes I’ve seen 
you glancing through typewritten manuscripts. I 
just thought-” 

“ Oh, no.” He made a large gesture that was, 
nevertheless, exquisite. “ I’m—I’m more by way 
of being an artist,” he explained. 

He was opening the brief-case and she rather 
hoped that he was going to show her some of his 
work. But he only pulled out a newspaper. 
“ You’re a New Yorker—do you care for The 
Tribune f ” It was obvious that he was anxious to 
change the subject. “ This is a recent copy.” 

At the name of the paper, Angela’s face bright¬ 
ened, and she took it delightedly. 

“ The Tribune is our regular paper. I haven’t 

231 




'MASQUES 

seen it since San Francisco—and this is the 
fifteenth, only five days ago! ” She glanced through 
the headlines and a frown came between her brows. 
“ It looks as if we were actually going to get in the 
fight before long. It ? s depressing to read the 
papers—it’s so certain that we ought to go in with 
the Allies. And yet—and yet—we can’t seem to 
get up the courage to send our own to be killed—or 
at least the authorities can’t.’’ As she opened the 
papers she exclaimed more lightly: “ There’s F. P. 
A.—he usually has something cheerful to say, even 
if he doesn’t appreciate my literary efforts.” 

“ I say! Did the beastly fellow ‘ zinc’ you? ” 

“ The beastly fellow did.” 

She turned to the editorial sheet and as she 
folded it back, her eye caught a headline on the 
society page: 

Fahnstock Elopement a Surprise to Younger Set 

“ Why! That must be Malcolm Fahnstock, he— 
no ! It’s—it’s Milly! ” 

The shock of the news came with almost dazing 
force. Angela dropped the paper, turned toward 
Mr. Seville blankly. 

“ You know her? ” he asked eagerly. 

“ Yes—Milly. She—she’s married. Ran away 
with a clerk of the Mawosta Tnn. She’s only seven¬ 
teen. It seems rather terrible, doesn’t it? ” 

Her words inadequately expressed the feeling 
that she experienced at the thought of Mildred 

232 



ANGELA 


Fahnstock, married. Little Milly! Slie was 
liavdly more than a child. . . . Somehow, it 
was as if Milly had left port before her vessel was 
quite seaworthy . . . and on that perilous 

voyage . . . 

“ Elopements are so romantic—aren’t they? I 
think that when two people find that they love each 
other and that they-” 

But Angela rose abruptly and suggested that 
they start back to the house. Mr. Seville, for all 
his falsetto ardor, didn’t seem amusing just then. 

5 

“ Angela, why don’t you make an effort to be a 
trifle nice to that actress girl? ” Mrs. Day’s deep 
voice had made the suggestion not unpleasantly. 
“ I wouldn’t want you to have her for a bosom 
friend, naturally, but I don’t think she’s very well, 
and maybe you could cheer her up.” 

“ But—but she’s so dreadful! ” Angela had 
expostulated. “ All that rouge and those fearful, 
‘ shaped ’ eyebroAvs of hers. I think she’s disgust¬ 
ing ! ” 

But then something had occurred that changed 
Angela’s feeling toward Miss O’Brien and made her 
thoroughly ashamed of her former attitude. As 
she told her grandmother afterward: “ Nanna, I’ve 
been a horrid, impossible moral snob. And I’ve no 
reason to be. I’m—I’m just no good in a lot of 
ways. But I’ve learned this lesson. . . 

233 



MASQUES 

It had all happened on the day preceding the 
departure of Angela and her grandmother. The 
events, in fact, had precipitated their leaving Santa 
Barbara sooner than they intended. 

An unusually cool summer day. A brilliant sun 
and the air as clear and keen as cut crystal. Mr. 
Seville had been waiting for such weather; he had 
been anxious to take Angela in his car up on a hill 
to a particular point of vantage, so that she might 
get a view of the Pacific and of the shore north and 
south. 

Lying back in the car, tightly wrapped and veiled, 
Angela blithely drank in the cool, pungent breath 
of the palms as the motor made its ascent through 
the woods. 

“ IPs so dense you can’t see on either side. And 

listen-!” Derek Porter Seville chirped with 

excitement, as he clutched the wheel with his nerv¬ 
ous hands. “ Except for the engine there isn’t a 
sound!” 

“ Quite remarkable, isn’t it? ” 

“ I say! Yes, isn’t it, though? It—it gives one 
the idea, somehow, that here in the ‘ forest primeval ’ 
one is singularly alone—eh? Sort of a feeling of 
remoteness from civilization.” 

Angela laughed. “ But it won’t be for long. 
We’ll come out in the midst of a millionaires’ settle¬ 
ment soon. We always do, around here.” 

u Aha! Wrong guess. Close your eyes and in a 
moment ——” 


234 





ANGELA 


With a mighty effort the motor swung heavily 
around the last curve and suddenly reached a clear¬ 
ing ; they were at the summit of the hill. 

“ Oh!” 

Angela’s wide mouth drew itself into a red cipher 
at the glory of the panorama spread, like a gift of 
a dramatic Jehovah, at her feet. But Seville 
brought her back to the commonplace with a 
thud. 

“ See! Down there is the identical spot where 
we sat together yesterday afternoon. And if that 
isn’t Miss O’Brien there, now! ” 

She followed his gaze to the beach below where 
a brightly dressed figure half-reclined in the sand. 
And not far off* a small fleck of pink was wading in 
the frilly edge of the Pacific, while a larger, blacker 
shape sat watching in the distance. 

“ It’s Margerie! ” Angela exclaimed, indicating 
the tiny blot of pink. “ Ooooo-hoooo! Margerieee! ” 
She put her hands to her mouth and called down, 
and Seville waved frantically. 

The rosy fleck stopped, looked about, and sud¬ 
denly waved back, juinjnng up and down. 

“ You’re fond of children, aren’t you? ” Seville 
said presently. 

u Isn’t everyone—at least to a certain extent?” 

“ To a certain extent—yes, I suppose so. But 
you—well, a man can tell that you’re the sort of 
girl who would love children and a home and all 
that. I think it’s very—wonderful. I’ve never 

235 


MASQUES 

known a girl like you. The girls I’ve been thrown 
with have been so—different.” 

“ I’ve shown you an example of a very common 
type, then. I assure you, Mr. Seville, I’m not in 
the least unusual, much as I might like to be.” 
Angela guardedly threw her tone into the practical, 
though her humorous instinct was to let him pro¬ 
ceed. 

But he went on, regardless of her attitude: “ I 
think you’re really quite—quite—I mean, you’re— 
Miss Day—Angela ! ” 

This Avas going farther than he had ever dared 
before, and Angela’s frank eyes turned toward him, 
wide open, a trifle surprised. 

“ I—I-” 

A scream, a thin, penetrating scream interrupted 
him. Angela and Seville turned hastily back to the 
beach below. 

“ Oh—my God! My God! ” It was Seville’s 
high voice, completely uncontrolled. “ The child— 
she’ll go under! She’ll-! ” 

Below them, on the sand, a dark figure of a 
colored nurse rocked back and forth in an agony of 
helpless fear, and beyond, a struggling flash of pink 
bobbed among the breakers. 

Angela laid a firm hand on the hysterical man’s 
arm. “ Quick! Start your car! We must go 
down—quick! ” 

But as the motor jerked to a start, Angela saw 
the bright-colored form of the actress rush to the 

236 






ANGELA 

edge of the water and fling itself unhesitatingly 
into the sea. 

“ Thank God!” Angela murmured. “ Oh, thank 
God! ” 

G 

When they reached the shore Miss O’Brien was 
staggering along the beach with the inert child in 
her arms. Her dark, wet hair clung to her rouge- 
smeared cheeks like black seaweed, and she was 
coughing weakly. The panic-stricken nurse stood 
in the foreground, making no effort to assist, 
wailing with aboriginal frenzy. 

Angela sprang from the car, ran to the actress, 
stripping off her own heavy motor-coat. 

“ Lay her down and then you put this on. We’ve 
got to work over her.” She turned to Seville. 
“ Go for a doctor at once! ” And to the frightened 
nurse: “ Stop crying and rush for some dry clothes. 
Hurrv! ” 

Now that she touched Margerie’s small cold body 
that was so unresponsive, Angela was afraid, 
horribly, terribly afraid. But she kept repeating 
to herself: “ I mustn’t lose my head! I’ve got to 
bring her back—somehow—I’ve got to! ” 

“ Now, Miss O’Brien, watch me a moment! ” 

It was rather like an undistinguished sergeant 
commanding a private who had won a war cross 
. . . even at the time Angela realized the differ¬ 

ence. But someone must arrange things, and the 
actress, after her flash of heroism, had subsided 

237 


MASQUES 

to a weary silence, punctuated by short, spasmodic 
couglis. 

Somewhere, someone had taught Angela the rudi¬ 
ments of First Aid . . . the principles were 
vague, but . . . She took the cold hands and 

raised them high above the baby’s head, then out 
to the sides, then down,—steadily, rhythmically. 

One, two, three . . . one, two, three. . . . 

Suppose that this had been her child—her own 
little girl! She would be able to call her back in 
some way, to snatch her away from the clutching 
grip that held her, she would . . . ! One, two, 

three . . . one, two, three. ... If only 

there were some sign, some trifling sign of hope! 
She was cold, cold and sickeningly limp . . . 

one, two, three. . . . Margerie! Margerie 

darling-! But there was no movement; it was 

her own efforts that had made the pale face jar 
. . . one, two, three . . . one, two, three 

. . . one, two, three. . . . Why didn’t the 

doctor come? Oh, Lord, why didn’t he? . . . 

one, two- 

“ Now, Miss O’Brien, you do what I am doing.” 
Angela stepped aside quickly and made a gesture 
for the actress to take her place. “ And I’ll try to 
start her breathing by pressing on her ribs. Now— 
steady—one, two, three-” 

Together they worked over the child, silently, 
awkwardly, tenderly. And Margerie lay like a 
white-faced doll, hopelessly unresponsive. 

238 





ANGELA 


“ She don’t seem—to have any—‘ come-back ’— 
poor—little kid! ” Miss O’Brien gasped between 
strokes. 

Angela’s lips were unsteady, but her hands were 
firm in their movements. “ I—I hope she isn't 
going to die! ” she said simply. 

It seemed like hours; it seemed like weeks—but 
it was really hardly more than fifteen minutes. 
And at the end of that time, Margerie quite unex¬ 
pectedly fluttered an eyelid, just as the doctor at 
last arrived; and two weary girls fell into each 
other’s arms and laughed, and sobbed together. 

7 

Angela rapped softly at Miss O’Brien’s door, 
later in the evening. The actress had a hall-room 
up under the eaves of the house. 

“ Come in.” 

Entering, Angela found the actress propped up 
in bed, her damp hair spread out on the pillow to 
dry. 

“ I’ve brought you some cough medicine. Nanna 
happened to have some. How do you feel? ” 

“ Oh, well enough. Course, I shouldn’t have 
acted up that way this afternoon. I mean—accord¬ 
ing to health.” 

“ You aren’t—very well. Are you? ” 

Miss O’Brien tapped her chest in a matter-of-fact 
manner. “ I’ve got trouble in here. Doctor told 
me I’d have to go to Colorado to get well. But 

239 


MASQUES 

Colorado costs money to go to from Los Angeles. 
And stay years—that’s what he told me. But I 
couldn’t afford to do that, of course. I’ve got to 
get back to the city in a month or so.” 

Angela’s eyes softened. “ And you did that—this 

afternoon, knowing that you-” 

“ Say-” Miss O’Brien’s voice cut in somewhat 

harshly. “ You take an awful lot of interest in me, 
all of a sudden, don’t you? ” 

Angela blushed. u Well, I—I-” 

“ Yeh. I didn’t notice you hanging around me 
before this. You’d run like the plague was after 
you every time you’d see me. And do you know ” 
—the actress clasped her thin arms about her 
knees and bent forward earnestly—“ do you know, 
I thought that first night that I was going to get a 
chance at a girl like you, as a friend. It—it kind 
of thrilled me. Like as if I was the peasant girl in 
the fairy tale, and you were the princess. . . . 

Well, you were a princess, all right. So royal that 
you couldn’t be bothered with a person like me. 
Oh, I don’t blame you.” 

“ I’m so—sorry,” Angela stammered. “ I—I 
was—awfully thoughtless. But please—can’t we 
be friends now? Is it too late? I want to be— 
truly.” 

Miss O’Brien caught Angela’s extended hand and 
gave it a boyish pat. “All right, you’re on.” Then 
she laughed suddenly, and her laugh wasn’t happy; 
it was tired, and a trifle bitter. “ You thought I 

240 






ANGELA 


didn’t know Avliat you thought of me, didn’t you? 
But I did, and I guess you were about right. 
Maybe I haven’t been so good, and maybe I’m not. 
And maybe, too, I didn’t have any nice old grandma 
to always tell me things, and show me what was 
what. It makes an awful lot of difference, I can 
tell you! ” 

“ Yes,” Angela admitted humbly. “ I can see 
that it would.” 

“And you-” Miss O’Brien shook back her 

damp locks impatiently. “ You’re the kind of a 
girl that somebody’ll always take care of. You’re 
used to it, and so somebody always will. Well, I’m 
going to look after you now. That is, seeing we’re 
friends.” 

Angela frowned. “ But I don’t understand. You, 
look after me? ” 

“ Just exactly.” Miss O'Brien took her arm and 
pulled her closer to the bed. “ Listen, kid. You’re 
all right, and I know it. And you don’t want to be 
going around w T ith a married man—and that’s what 
Seville is.” 

“ Married! ” Angela started back. “ Why, but 
how do you know? It can’t be—he-” 

“ Oh, I know, all right. He used to be art di¬ 
rector for the Cinema Players Company. I’ve seen 
his wife around the studio often. He wouldn’t 
know me—I was only an extra, then. But I know 
him—know him well enough not to trust myself 
within a mile of him.” 


241 





MASQUES 

“ Why, but he’s-’’ Angela started to protest. 

“Yell. He’s been safe enough, for you—so far / 7 
Miss O’Brien agreed. “ But he took to you from 
the first, I could see that—probably liked that 
1 princess ’ style of yours—thought you were class, 
maybe. I don’t know. . . . But anyway, take 

my advice and just clear out. That’s the thing to 
do, clear out.” 

“ I—I didn’t know. I’ve been an awful fool. 
. . . Thank you. . . .” Angela’s face was 

white, bewildered. Turning abruptly, she went out 
of the door and back to her own room. 

Mrs. Day was sleeping quietly and Angela en¬ 
tered without awakening her. She went over to her 
own bed and sat down on the edge. 

A variegated series of sensations swept her, but 
uppermost was the feeling of humility. That she 
should have scorned this girl without taking into 
consideration the differences in their advantages, 
in everything that went to make them the people 
that they w T ere! That she should have done, herself, 
in her innocent stupidity, what she would have con¬ 
demned in Miss O’Brien! “ I didn’t understand,” 

Angela murmured. “ I didn’t know. . . .” 

The thought of Mr. Seville brought only disgust. 
She would take the actress’ advice; she and her 
grandmother would leave immediately. Instinc¬ 
tively, she tiptoed about the room, gathering up 
their belongings, packing them in the trunks. And 
while she worked a plan was formulating in her 

242 



ANGELA 


mind. A plan at least partially to redeem herself 
in lier own eyes, to relieve the injury that she had 
done the other girl. 

Late that night she crept up-stairs to Miss 
O’Brien’s room and softly tucked an envelope under 
the door: 

“ This is to say good-bye and—thank you. 

“ These travellers’ checks I hope you’ll use for a 
trip to Colorado. But please don’t think I’m try¬ 
ing to repay you for what you’ve done. I only 
want you to accept this in the spirit of our friend¬ 
ship, for then I shall know that you forgive me. 

“ There isn’t any way that I can apologize to you. 
I simply want you to know how terribly sorry I am 
that I hurt you.” 

Henceforth, for Angela, the black and white that- 
had so clearly defined her image of things was 
melted into a softer, gentler gray. . . . 

But now that she was about to leave Santa Bar¬ 
bara so suddenly, she felt an ache in her heart at 
the thought of losing Margerie. She hadn’t appre¬ 
ciated before, how much the companionship of that 
little girl had meant to her. Would she find other 
children later on, who would take Margerie’s place? 
Angela began to realize that there had been a wait¬ 
ing space in her life, and that Margerie had partly 
filled it. 


243 


CHAPTER II 


1 

In Los Angeles Mrs. Day and Angela found a city 
that delighted them both. 

“ I never saw so many good-looking clothes in my 
life! Why go to Paris? ” 

Angela’s pleasantest hours were rounds of shop¬ 
ping: Hamburger’s, Robinson’s,—all the more ex¬ 
clusive shops on Seventh Street. She had finally 
to buv a new trunk in order to accommodate her 
purchases. 

But Mrs. Day’s particular penchant proved to be 
trolley trips. She left none of the beaches and 
near-by resorts unvisited. And sightseeing busses. 
Angela at last pleaded for mercy on that point. 

“ I don’t see why you don’t hire a touring-car, 
Hanna dear. The chauffeurs on these ‘ rubber¬ 
necks ’ are fiends. When I’m not in terror at their 
recklessness they are simply deafening me, bawling 
out the names of the different studios.” 

“ Honsense! ” Mrs. Day scoffed. u You don’t 
have nearly the fun if you go by yourself. For in¬ 
stance—that young married couple that sat next to 
us on the trip to Riverside. They were much more 
interesting than some of the scenery. And that 
travelling salesman from Oswego. Ho, I much 
prefer the busses! ” 


244 - 


ANGELA 


Yet, for all their seeming enjoyment, there was a 
troubled undercurrent, a sort of dangerous sus¬ 
pense about those outwardly placid March days. 

U. 8. Assailed in Reichstag on Sea Issue. 

Preparedness—Are We Preparedt 
Wilson to Demand Full Disavowal From Berlin. 

All the newspapers pointed to but one thing 
now,—war. The black eagle of Imperialism had 
flapped its insolent wings too tauntingly; the fight¬ 
ing spirit of the easy-going people of the United 
States had at last been aroused; they had cast off 
their thoughtless good-nature, and were stand¬ 
ing shoulder to shoulder, sternly awaiting the final 
call to arms. 

Angela and Mrs. Day read the papers with few 
comments. They w r ere in California supposedly for 
a pleasure trip; neither one wished to suggest re¬ 
turning home until it was absolutely necessary. 
But in the back of each mind the menacing fact 
dominated, and a letter from George Warbridge to 
Angela unexpectedly settled the question of their 
course of action. 

To hear from him, in the first place, w r as a sur¬ 
prise. They weren’t in the habit of corresponding, 
he and Angela. They met, infrequently, at dances 
and other affairs given by their common friends, 
and outside of that they seldom saw each other. 
Angela had often wondered whether George ac¬ 
tually disliked her. But then, he had been so 

. 245 


MASQUES 

deeply in love with Mildred Fahnstock; it wasn’t 
strange that he had shown no particular interest in 
the rest of the girls. 

His letter was friendly enough. He started off 
with all the news of Mildred’s wedding that he had 
been able to gather. Angela had heard from Milly 
once since her elopement; Milly, it seemed, w T as liv¬ 
ing at home for the present while she hunted for an 
apartment. But it was splendid to know from an 
outside source that she was happily married. 
Angela was relieved. 

“ I haven’t seen her, but I had a note from her 
while she was on her honeymoon. And I met Mr. 
Fahnstock at lunch the other day. He told me 
that Henry Tadd was a fine chap and he seemed 
much pleased over the whole affair. But we’ll miss 
Milly in the old 4 bunch,’ won’t we? 

“ Maybe there won’t be any ‘ bunch/ though, if 
things turn out the way they seem to be going. All 
the fellows have got together lately for military 
training. We meet two nights a Tveek at one of 
the armories. And the girls are getting up Pre¬ 
paredness Parades and all kinds of things. Some 
of them are going to organize a motor corps. I 
think everyone feels that there will be war now 
within a very few weeks.” 

It wasn’t that George’s letter told them anything 
that they didn’t already know. Simply that the 
fact that the whole country was at the edge of a 
precipice became the more apparent because it 
struck home. 


246 


ANGELA 


Angela had known George Warbridge since kin¬ 
dergarten days; she bad a genuine affection for 
him. Since she had u put her hair up ” their friend¬ 
ship had become more casual. But as children, 
they had been splendid chums. 

George wasn’t deep or interesting, from one point 
of view, and Angela had always suspected him of 
a certain amount of weakness of character, for all 
his stolid appearance. But he was a dear in a 
great many ways, and to know that he and those 
other young people with whom she had grown up 
were patriotically working, while she was passing 
frivolous days in the Summer-Land—it made her 
decision to return to New York inevitable. 

Angela folded the letter which she had been read¬ 
ing aloud to her grandmother in a secluded corner 
of the hotel writing-room. 

“ Nanna, I’m sorry-” her frank eyes were 

troubled. “ I know how you love it here. But 

honestly, don’t you think-? ” 

“ Think?” Mrs. Day laid down her embroidery 
and looked up. Her deep voice boomed out sur¬ 
prisingly in the quiet room. “ Angela, did you 
ever know me to want to be out of the thick of 
things? Thank heaven, you’ve spoken at last! I 
thought you never would! ” 


2 

Angela received one more letter before leaving 

247 




MASQUES 

Los Angeles. It was a note from Vera Henny’s 
cool hand: 

“ I had hoped to return to New York before this, 
but there are so many attractions at home that I 
find the days passing almost before I know they 
are gone. My recitations are surprisingly popular 
here. I gave them Ozymandias at a special perform¬ 
ance one afternoon, and the applause quite over¬ 
came me. 

“ My dear, isn't it dreadful about Milly’s elope¬ 
ment? When I read the account of it in one of the 
magazines, it took my breath away. That was the 
first I had heard of it—I think she might have let 
us know more delicately. 

“ Of course Mildred has always done foolish 
things, but I never thought she would sentence her¬ 
self for life—with a hotel clerk! I suppose there’s 
a chance that the Fahnstocks could push him by 
means of their own prestige, but I doubt if they 
could do even that. No, I’m afraid poor Milly is 
done for. But I do think she might have shown 
more sense.” 

This point of view was something new to Angela. 
She had thought it very dreadful that Milly should 
have married, but only on account of her extreme 
youth. Mildred was such an infant! She really 
hardly knew her own mind as yet. 

But the idea of Henry Tadd as socially ineligible 
hadn’t occurred to her. If Mr. Fahnstock thought 
him nice, he undoubtedly was nice, and that was 
the end of it. 

Vera had always been rather puzzling in matters 

248 


ANGELA 


of this sort. She took “ rank ” extremely seriously. 
It didn't matter whether a person were in any way 
agreeable, if he “ belonged." 

But as far as Angela was concerned, she envied 
Mildred and was glad for her. For Mildred at 
least had found love. In such a case the “ hotel 

clerk '' prejudice was insignificant. 

# 

3 

War was declared the day before Angela and her 
grandmother arrived in New York. The news was 
received while they were en route, to the wild ex¬ 
citement and enthusiasm of the people in the train. 
All passengers immediately assumed the intimacy 
of long years' friendship, and they alternated be¬ 
tween outbursts of The Battle Hymn of the Repub¬ 
lic and heated patriotic orations by a Methodist 
minister who happened to be aboard. 

By way of contrast the old Day mansion seemed, 
when they reached home, more tranquilly placid 
and more antediluvian than ever before. Its broad 
windows gazed out at Park Avenue with a quiet, 
gentle regard; its lavender-scented interior was 
pleasantly encompassing, like a sweet-smelling 
hedge. Difficult to believe, standing in that flow¬ 
ered hallway with the phlegmatic portrait of Uncle 
Jeremiah staring down from above the red-brick 
fireplace, that there ever had been or ever would 
be such a thing as war. 

Angela spent her first week trying to procure 

249 


MASQUES 

some servants. She found domestic help of all 
kinds extremely scarce, but she finally succeeded in 
luring a young Norwegian girl to the house with 
promises of a shower attachment in the maids’ bath¬ 
room. The maid, however, only stayed three days. 
After that, George Warbridge again unconsciously 
settled things. 

He came to call one night; she knew it was he 
because he rang his short three rings—the signal 
that he had used as a child. And besides, it was 
one minute of eight. George made a fad of his 
infallible promptness. 

She went to the door and swung it back on its 
heavy hinges. 

“ George! ”—she stretched out her hand delight¬ 
edly. “ I’m so glad. However did you know I was 
home? ” 

“ I didn’t. I was passing by last night and saw 
the lights—you didn’t let me know, so I took a 
chance.” 

“ I’ve been so busy. Come in.” 

She led him into the green and gray drawing¬ 
room and switched on the electric light, the only 
modern appurtenance in the room. He had taken 
her unawares and she was in a delft blue house 
dress that she had never particularly liked, but it 
didn’t matter. That was a nice thing about 
George; she didn’t care how she looked or what she 
did, with him—he wouldn’t mind. 

But George—he was his usual dapper self. His 

250 



ANGELA 


cutaway Lugged his short stocky figure in a felici¬ 
tous embrace; Lis fawn-colored spats topped boots 
that were as black and shiny as Lis bead-like eyes. 

It seemed quite natural to see him seat himself 
in the winged armchair by the table and glance 
about while he waited for her to open the conver¬ 
sation. Even as a small boy, he had never been 
talkative, and it w T as Angela who had invented their 
games together. 

“ Well, George—tell me all about everything and 
everybody. I haven’t had time to see people yet.” 

“ There isn’t much to tell.” His ruddy face was 
serious. “ Of course the war has changed things a 
lot.” 

“ So soon? I didn’t suppose—why-” 

“ Oh, I don’t mean that anyone has done any¬ 
thing very much so far,” George admitted. He 
went on, for him, somewhat garrulously: “ But 
everyone is planning. Take Marian Ellis and Jack 
Ten Broek. They’re going to be married most any 
time now, because he’s going into the navy in a few 
weeks, they say. I expect to be sent South myself 
nearly any day.” 

“ George—you’ve enlisted? ” 

“ I guess so. There’s so much red tape it’s hard 
to make out just what I have done. All I know is 
that as soon as they found out I’d been to a military 
school when I was a kid, they decided to send me 
down to Virginia as a second lieut. So I’m off in 
a couple of days.” 


251 




MASQUES 

The news struck like a thunderbolt. Angela had 
thought vaguely, had taken it as a matter of course 
that all her friends would enlist. But that, in her 
mind, had meant that they would be sent to a camp 
near at hand, where she could run out to see them 
occasionally on special days, much as she had done 
when they were away at college. Then, at some 
remote date, they would finally be sent abroad. 

“ But—but they won’t send you over soon, will 
they? ” she faltered. 

“ I don’t know. I hope so—as long as I’m more 
or less trained. I’m sick of waiting around.” 

Angela shook her head slowly and the brightness 
of her hair against her pale skin flamed in the soft 
lamplight. “ You make me terribly ashamed, 
George. I’ve been delaying war work wdiile I tried 
to get servants and start the house running again, 
and you’ve been-” 

She broke off and fell silent, while George sat 
stodgily by. He finally remarked comfortably: 
“ You have a wonderful place here, for a hospital.” 

Ilis irrelevance was so surprising that Angela 
started. “ And you have such cheerful thoughts! ” 
she laughed. 

“Well, that’s what Mrs. Drewberry is going to 
do with her house, you know. She’s going to turn 
it into a hospital for wounded soldiers. And Mrs. 
Widderly is starting the Fifth Avenue War Belief 
League. . . .” 

Piece by piece she gathered the facts. All the 

252 



ANGELA 


men she knew had enlisted or were arranging their 
affairs preparatory to going into the service. The 
women, those of whom were not giving their hus¬ 
bands and sons, were offering their homes, their 
time, their resources. Sacrifice, and the spirit that 
we were “ out to win ”! 

It was nearing eleven when George finally rose to 
go. 

“ I may as well say good-bye/’ he announced in 
a matter-of-fact tone. “ I don’t know when I’ll be 
sent away and I may not have a chance again.” 

Angela swung wide the door and held out her 
hand to him in her friendly way, careful to bid 
good-night in the same casual manner that she had 
always used with him. 

“ Well—good luck! ” 

“ Thanks. And—and write to me—will you? ” 

“ Of course.” 

Her frank eyes couldn’t quite meet his, but she 
smiled valiantly, and as he ran down the steps she 
waved a blithe farewell, wondering meanwhile if 
she would ever see him just like that again. . . . 

She went back, sadly, to the drawing-room, to 
switch off the light before going up to bed. And 
on the threshold, the serene loveliness of that 
quaint place smote her anew, as it always did when¬ 
ever she entered. To her, it was the frame of every¬ 
thing that she saw and knew of life. 

“You have a wonderful place here, for a hos¬ 
pital.” 


253 


MASQUES 

That quiet room filled with white beds . . . 

surely, no one could suffer here. Those gray walls, 
for tired eyes; the peaceful ticking of the tall clock 
for ears that were w^eary with the sound of bursting 
shells. . . . 

Suddenly Angela turned out the lamp and in the 
darkness groped her way to the door. “Dear 

place-” she murmured. “We’ll have to—have 

to-” 

Her hand found the baluster of the stairs and 
rested there lovingly for a moment. Then reso¬ 
lutely, she started up the steps. 

It was the second parting from an old friend that 
she had had that night. 


4 

But in the home of F. Gordon Fahnstock a dif¬ 
ferent sort of scene was enacted that day. Mal¬ 
colm had run away from college and had enlisted. 

Mrs. Fahnstock came in late in the afternoon 
from a tea, and found him in the sitting-room, read¬ 
ing a copy of The Manual of Arms, with his slim 
legs nonchalantly thrown over one arm of the chair. 

“ Oh, Malcolm, Fve told you so often not to sit 
in things sidewise! Look, you’ll break it! ” 

“ Sorry.” Malcolm rose, glanced down at his 
mother quizzically. 

“Why do you look so funny? You-?” In 

her distress over the chair she hadn’t realized that 
Malcolm had no business in the room at all. It 

254 





ANGELA 


dawned on her now. “Good heavens, darling! 
What have you done? Oh, dear! Have they ex¬ 
pelled you at Williams, too? What will your fa¬ 
ther say? ” 

Malcolm shook his sleek, wetly brushed head. 
“ Calm your fit, Mom. It isn’t that this time. I 
haven’t done anything I oughtn’t to do, if that’s 
what you’re afraid of.” 

“Well, but Malcolm, why are you here? We 
send you away to college and you appear in New 
York for no reason at all. I don’t understand, 
really I-” 

“ Don’t worry,” Malcolm smiled firmly. “ I’ll 
tell Dad when he comes in. . . . How are you, 
anyway, Mom? ” 

Mai—the apple of her eye! She worshipped him 
with the deepest feeling that the shallow recesses 
of her soul permitted. He was so tall, and slim, and 
blond. She looked up at him adoringly. 

“ I don’t wonder all the girls make fools of them¬ 
selves over you, Mai. I should, if I were nineteen, 
and not related to you.” 

“ Aw—Mother! ” Malcolm turned away in dis¬ 
gust. 

“Well, I should. And anyone who can dance 
like you-” 

“ * When he dance he mak’ dose shoulder go-ooo 
—so-ooo!’” Malcolm sang. “How do you like 
this one? I do it for the fellows up at college. 
They cry for it.” 


255 




MASQUES 

“ Ok—how disgusting! I hope you never dance 
that way outside. Really, Mai! They arrested 
some people in the Cafe Bordeaux the other night. 
You must he careful! ” 

“ That’s all right. Purely for home and frat con¬ 
sumption. I-” 

An angry cough came from the direction of the 
doorway. Malcolm and his mother turned. F. Gor¬ 
don Fahnstock, purpler than usual, his heavy eye¬ 
brows drawn into a thick, straight line. 

“ Hello, Dad! Been waiting for you! ” 

Mr. Fahnstock stepped in. “ What’s the matter 
this time? First it’s you and then it’s Mildred, 
and then it’s you again. Well, what is it? ” 

Malcolm hung his head. “ I’m sorry, but it’s— 
well—it’s ” He glanced toward Mrs. Fahn¬ 
stock. “Couldn’t we go into another room? I’d 
like to tell you alone, Dad.” 

“Alone?” Mr. Fahnstock’s voice was strident. 
“ So bad you can’t tell it before your mother, 
eh? Very well, young man. . . . Step into 

my study and we’ll have it out once and for 
all.” 

He swung abruptly about and thumped out of 
the room, and across the hall, where he stood with 
one hand on the knob of the door, waiting. 

“ Oh, Mai—what have you done? What dreadful 
thing-? ” 

Malcolm put his firm hands on his mother’s 
plump shoulders. “ Don’t cry—for the love of Mike 

.256 





ANGELA 

—Mom! It’s all right. I haven’t done anything I 
oughtn’t! ” 

Turning, he went to join his father, his blond 
head carried high. The door closed behind them, 
cutting off the drama from Mrs. Fahnstock’s tear¬ 
ful eyes. 

The father opened a humidor on the table of his 
study, and selected a long Russian cigar. Malcolm 
reached out eager fingers toward the cigarettes, but 
Mr. Fahnstock pushed him back. 

“ No, you don’t! You know I don’t want you 
to smoke those things. Those are only for 
guests.” He struck a light. u Come on, now. 
Don’t make any bones of your confession. I know 
it’s bad.” 

His father’s gruff tone piqued Malcolm. His lean 
face reddened. “ All right, sir. If you’re in a 
hurry, I’ll tell you in two words: I’ve enlisted.” 

The cigar dropped from Mr. Fahnstock’s hands. 
He turned to Malcolm, the purple in his face sud¬ 
denly faded. “ You’ve-~?” He sank heavily 

into a chair. 

“ I say, Dad! I’m sorry I was so fresh—telling 
you that way. You made me kind of mad, and 
I-” Malcolm was bending over his father, sin¬ 

cere concern in his boyish blue eyes. 

Mr. Fahnstock looked up. “ Is—that why—you 
left—college? ” he faltered. 

Malcolm nodded. “ I’ve had the dickens of a 
time trying to keep the news from Mother. Wanted 

257 




MASQUES 

you to know first. Thought she’d go off the hooks 
and bawl or something.” 

Mr. Fahnstock straightened, made an effort to 
regain his own composure. He picked up his fallen 
cigar and attempted to light it again, but it shook. 

“ Here you are, Dad.” Malcolm cheerfully held 
out a light. 

Mr. Fahnstock puffed; the light caught. As 
Malcolm withdrew his hand his father grasped it, 
and blew out the match. “ Little . . . 

Mai. . . .” 

Malcolm pulled away awkwardly. “ There you 
are, sir! ” 

There was a long silence. The mind of the older 
man was filled with flashes of the past—times when 
Malcolm was a child and they had really known 
each other. 

Do you remember how we fished in that brook in 
Vermont?—he wanted to ask the question, to go 
over all the good times that they had had together. 
But he knew that Malcolm didn’t care for the past. 
That was an old man’s game. 

His cigar was calming his nerves. He looked up 
at his son, his big Mai, who was going to war. 
“Where will they send you? ” he demanded. His 
tone was practical. 

Malcolm shrugged. “ I don’t know. Plattsburg, 
I hope. Anyhow, I couldn’t stay up in Massachu¬ 
setts, studying Latin.” 

“ What branch? ” 


258 


ANGELA 


u Infantry. Good chance of a commission, too. 
Not that it matters so much. I’ll get in the tight 
just the same.” 

Visions of a small, blond little boy punching a 
bigger boy, giving him a justly famous “ mouse ” 
under one eye! The apparition of a weeping 
mother and of an admonishing, but proud father! 
It all came back to Fahnstock. 

“ Tell me just one thing, Dad,” Malcolm was 
saying. “Do you mind my having done what I 
have done? I’d—I’d kind of like to go off feeling 
you weren’t—sore.” 

Sore? Mr. Fahnstock rose, gripped his son’s 
arms in his tight hands. “ I’d be darned if I’d see 
you do anything else! ” he roared. 

The proud old eyes looked into Malcolm’s blue 
ones, and held. Something passed in that glance, 
something intangible, but as binding as steel. 

“Oh, Lord!” Mr. Fahnstock cried presently. 
“ We’d forgotten about Mother, Mai. We’ve got to 
tell her.” 

Malcolm laughed. “ All right. Now for the fire¬ 
works ! ” 

Together they went back to the sitting-room, as 
they had come away. Only this time their spirits 
were together, too. 


5 

The Days found a small apartment on Riverside 
Drive which suited their needs, and which rented 

259 


MASQUES 

for possibly a tenth the amount that it bad cost to 
keep up the old mansion. 

Angela managed to do the housework before she 
went out in the mornings; she had plunged whole¬ 
heartedly into war work and was away from home 
most of the time. Not the war work that she would 
have preferred; she had tried desperately to obtain 
leave to go overseas to work with the refugee chil¬ 
dren, but she was too young. She had been forced 
to make the best of selling Thrift Stamps, War 
Savings Stamps, Liberty Bonds. And she waited 
on table in the canteens, knitted socks with furious 
haste,—and danced with the officers at the Vander- 
more. 

This latter task, of course, she didn’t consider in 
the light of “work.” Marian Ellis, an old school 
acquaintance, now Marian Ten Broek, was a young 
bride who acted as one of the patronesses of the 
balls. She had invited Angela to come as a “ regu¬ 
lar ” and Angela had promptly accepted. So many 
of the boys whom she knew had already become 
members of the Officers’ Club. 

It was at one of these parties that she met Mal¬ 
colm Fahnstock for the first time since her return 
from California. She saw his blond head across 
the ballroom; he was dancing with an extremely 
rouged and earringed young “ sub-deb ” who had 
somehow managed to get herself invited to these 
affairs. Long and slim he was, with the proper 
air of boredom when he danced. And he could 

260 


ANGELA 


dance!—Angela remembered him of old, even in 
the days of dancing-school. 

He caught sight of her during the following num¬ 
ber, and crossing the floor, cut in. 

“ Gosh all hemlock—if it isn’t ‘ the Angel ’! ” 
he cried as he led her off. “ Golly, I’m glad 
you’re here. That little work of art in the shape 
of Rosalie Taylor is the only live wire I’ve 
been able to make a connection with so far, to¬ 
night.” 

“You mustn’t flatter me, Mai. I’m liable to 
* short-circuit,’ you know.” 

Malcolm frowned in mock sternness. “ Now 
don’t start any of that Bernard Shaw repartee. 
Remember you’re with me. Talk down to your au¬ 
dience. You know—that’s the only thing I’ve got 
against you, Angela,—you’re too blooming high¬ 
brow.” 

“ You see,” Angela replied lightly, “ that’s where 
I’m broader-minded. I’ve always liked you, even 
though I don’t approve of you in the least. . . . 

But when did you join? I didn’t know you had.” 

“ Sure thing. Like a fool, I ran away from 
Williams. If I’d waited half a second I could have 
gone in with the whole darned college. Everybody 
enlisted right away, of course. Nothing like using 
your head—that’s me! . . . Now—pay atten¬ 
tion to your dancing. I’m going to try a tricky step 
in a minute. Now-! ” 

“ Aha! ” Angela taunted a moment later. “ You 

261 



MASQUES 

didn't fool me on that one. Bring on all your 
tricks—I’m not afraid! ” 

But at that moment the dance came to an end 
with the usual “ war-tax ” finale, and a bugle an¬ 
nounced the fact that it was the supper dance. 

“Angel, must we eat? ” Malcolm led her out into 
the hallway to a divan that was set in a grove of 
palm-trees. “Just when I had my appetite up for 
dancing. That’s not nice.” 

Angela dropped onto the divan. “And I’ve been 
waiting all evening for that bugle. I thought they’d 
never blow it.” 

“ Huh. Even the angels get hungry sometimes, 
don’t they? Well, how do we get the c mess’? 
Rustle around for it? ” 

“ Yes.” Angela nodded. “At these parties they 
deal things out from behind a buffet somewhere. 
Then the gentleman gets the lady her supper and 
brings it to her. And if he’s really a gentleman 
he sees to it that her portion is of the proper 
dimensions.” 

“ You’re subtle, but I get you. All right—but 
remember, you’ve got to eat everything I bring you. 
That’s part of it.” 

As he went off, Angela’s eyes followed his slim, 
debonair figure half-humorously, half-wistfully. 
Malcolm Fahnstock had always seemed to her just 
to miss being wliat she would have designated as 
“ a perfectly corking chap.” He was attractive in 
his youthful physique and blondness; he was amus- 

262 


ANGELA 


ing in his light, college-boy chatter; and he knew 
all the intricate twists of the game of flirtation, 
which he played cleverly and like a sportsman. To 
Angela, he was a nice boy, but shallow; he had been 
somewhat spoiled by his mother first, then by the 
girls of his own age. But he was like Milly; one 
couldn’t help thinking him lovable. 

When he returned she asked him about his sister. 
Where was she living? Why hadn’t she written? 
How was she getting along? 

“ Oh, Milly’s all right,” he answered between 
mouthfuls. “ She’ll take care of herself in this 
world, nobody needs to worry about her. Gosh! 
If she was my wife I’d wring her neck. Course 
she’s all right for a sister.” 

“ I wish I could see her,” Angela answered. 
“ But I’ve been so busy with war work, and I know 
she must be, too. When did you see her last, Mai? ” 

“When I first came down from Plattsburg. 
Went up to show her my uniform.” 

“ You look fine in uniform. Awfully—a—well, 
as if you were a high-up aide-de-camp—whatever 
that is! ” 

“ I am.” Malcolm’s face lit like a child’s at her 
praise, and the bored look, which he assumed, dis¬ 
appeared. “ Didn’t you realize, Angel, that I’m a 

First Lieutenant? The rest of this small-fry-” 

he gave a mock gesture of contempt toward the 
ballroom. “Most of those fellows are only ‘sec¬ 
onds.’ I never was glad before that Dad had sent 

263 



MASQUES 

me to military school with George Warbridge. But 
I'll hand it to the Old Man now.” 

“ Poor George. . . . He’s on the high seas 
now. . . .” 

“ Poor George—nothing! The kid’s in luck! ” 
The orchestra in the distance had started again. 
A slow r waltz, pathetic violins and a ’cello obligato. 

Malcolm jumped up. “ ‘ If you could care for me, 
as I could care for you-hoo! ’ ” he sang. “ Come on, 
Angela, you’ve eaten enough for any human being— 
snap into it! ” 

He led her off and back to the ballroom, gliding 
smoothly, now walking, now turning, with a low, 
swinging dip. Three times they encircled the room 
before the number ended, and then as they stopped 
Angela looked up at him questioningly. 

“ Mai, tell me—is there anything wrong with 
me? My dress—it’s very old, I don’t buy any 
clothes because it’s war, you know. But—is it all 
right? How do I look? ” 

“ You look—just the way you always do. Did 
you ever see one of those porcelain figures that have 
their hair and clothes colored and their skins left 
white ? That’s how you look—like a porcelain doll. 
‘ Fragile, do not handle ’! ” 
u c Fragile ’ is good! ” Angela laughed uneasily. 
“ There never was anyone so disgustingly healthy. 
But—but I seem suddenly to have grown so unpop¬ 
ular—no one * cut in ’ all during that dance. Is 
anything wrong, do you suppose? ” 

264 


ANGELA 


“No, everything’s right, I think.” Malcolm 
winked one mischievous blue eye. “ Those things 
are sometimes—arranged,” he suggested. “ I hap¬ 
pen to be the only First Lieutenant here. And, as 
you say—it’s war! ” 


G 

“ Buy a bond, please! Won’t you buy a bond? ” 

Angela’s throat ached, her feet throbbed. Two 
more days for the Liberty Loan Drive; two more 
days in front of the Fifth Avenue Library, with the 
dizzying crowds. Begging, cajoling, pleading, and 
occasionally selling. 

Anxiously she scanned the stage of the miniature 
theater on the steps. It made so much difference 
who spoke to the crowds. The psychology of the 
mob was an inexplicable thing; why people should 
become suddenly patriotic at the sight of their 
favorite moving picture star was mysterious, but 
actual. 

But Angela wasn’t looking for actors to-day; 
there was one man who could move the crowds in a 
way that no simpering ingenue and self-complaisant 
hero could hope to do, for all their nation-wide pres¬ 
tige. It was this man who was needed to-day; the 
closing of the drive, the last pennies to be squeezed 
from already flattened purses. 

Miss Ray Cox, chairman of the Stage Women’s 
War Relief, had stepped out to the edge of the 
platform to introduce the next speaker. 

265 


MASQUES 

“ We're very fortunate. We have again a man 
who knows conditions 4 over there 9 as few of us 
know them. He can tell you what this money will 
do that you lend the Government. He knows. 
Mr. Irvin S. Cobb." 

Angela breathed a sigh of relief at the name, and 
a burst of applause rose as Mr. Cobb came forward. 
It was all right; the bonds would go now, Angela 
was sure they would. 

44 Just a word about investments. , . . 

44 Then there are the poppy fields. . . . 

44 One thing. . . . Sacrifice . . . stop until 
there isn't anything left . . . got to do that 
much . . . got to. . . 

While he spoke, Angela studied the faces in the 
crowd. Shop-girls, a delivery boy carrying a num¬ 
ber of hat boxes, a good-looking young man with 
gray eyes. Her gaze fixed itself on the latter 
youth; she had learned enough of salesmanship in 
the past months to distinguish a prospective buyer 
from the casual listener. She saw the young man’s 
expression change, during Cobb's talk, from a sort 
of passive attention to a more lively interest, then 
finally, to a genuine enthusiasm. As the speech 
closed, he applauded vigorously, his color height¬ 
ened, a new light in his disquieted eyes. 

She went up to him quickly. “ Won't you buy a 
bond, please? " 

He hesitated a moment, then snatched from her 
hands the slip that she had proffered him, 

266 


ANGELA 


u Yes, I will —Til take a—lot.” 

He fumblingly signed the card and passed it back 
to her. 

“ Buy a bond, please! Won’t you buy a bond? ” 
She had gone on to the next cluster of men and 
women, was begging, pleading with them. 

And it wasn’t until a half-hour later, during a 
lull between speeches, that Angela discovered who 
the handsome young man was who had bought her 
first bonds. Then, of course, he had disappeared. 

On the slip that she had handed to him was the 
name of Milly’s husband . . . Henry Tadd. 


7 

And after the first enthusiasm of war, the weary 
drag, the hopelessness, the agonizing grief, the end¬ 
lessness. Only a little over a year and yet it was as 
if the United States had never known any other con¬ 
dition, as though peace were some fancy of the 
mind, some Utopia that could never actually be 
realized. 

Angela tried to lose herself in work; Mrs. Day 
had found her place as general overseer of the hos¬ 
pital into which their mansion had been turned. 
They usually met at meals, but aside from those 
times, they saw little of one another during that 
nerve-straining period. 

Toward the end of the summer of 1918, Angela 
received a letter from Malcolm Fahnstock. She 
had heard from him, since he had sailed ? several 

867 


MASQUES 

times. Formerly they had kept up a dilatory cor¬ 
respondence, during vacations. 

It was ungrammatical, misspelled, typically the 
note of an American college-hoy: 

“ You see I can’t tell you where I am, but believe 
me, it’s a whale of a place. They sent us back here 
for fourty-eight hours leave and they haven’t even 
got a movie show in the town. The girls (?) in the 
Y. M. C. A. hut dance like—well, you’ve got to be 
heftier than I am to push some of those dread¬ 
noughts around the floor. 

“ But you ought to see a lot of these French frogs 
fight. As much pep as if war had only just been 
declared. The other day a bunch of Frenchies who 
were holding the line south of us got pushed back, 
but the next day they went forward again at fear¬ 
ful odds. It seemed that they had been ordered to 
retreat, but they saw an opportunity and so they 
went to it to try to win back the ground they had 
lost. One of them said to me afterward, ‘ II ny as 
que une vie et cest pour le France ’—or something 
like that. Anyhow, that shows the spirit. . . .” 

Yes, and it showed Malcolm’s spirit, as well, 
showed Angela what she had been looking for in all 
of his letters—that perhaps there might be some¬ 
thing beneath that frivolous attitude of his, that 
possibly it was a sort of flippant reserve that she 
hadn’t understood. There was just a suggestion, 
but . . . this letter made Angela wonder. 


268 


CHAPTER III 


1 

Two more jaded months of war, and then, almost 
without warning, cessation. And after the Armi¬ 
stice came the lull. A sudden ceasing of frenzied 
industriousness, a return to practical everyday life, 
which seemed, by comparison, wonderfully peaceful 
but monotonous. 

With only the easy housekeeping of that small 
apartment, Angela found existence too pleasant and 
idle a thing. She was restless. Mrs. Day watched 
her as she went about her trifling, unessential tasks. 
Angela spent hours polishing brass fixtures, waxing 
the floors, doing a hundred unnecessary things that 
succeeded only in keeping her hands occupied. 
And at last Mrs. Day spoke. 

“ I should think with all the talking that you’ve 
done about being a writer, that you’d get to work, 
Angela. Do you expect Calliope to touch you with 
the divine flame of inspiration? Is that what you’re 
waiting for? ” 

Angela had been washing the white woodwork 
in her grandmother’s bedroom while Mrs. Day sat 
by, with her usual fine embroidery. But at the 
sound of the deep voice she dropped her brush into 
the basin of soapy water and turned. “ Why, no, 

269 


MASQUES 

Nanna. I do want to w T rite sometime—honestly. 
But I simply don’t think I know enough yet.” 

“ How do you think you’re going to learn? ” Mrs. 
Day challenged. “Just sit around and inhale 
knowledge? How does a painter learn to paint? ” 

Angela pushed back the wavy locks of reddish 
hair that fell over her forehead as a result of her 
recent exertions. “I don’t know. I suppose he 
goes—maybe to Paris, if he has the money. And 
studies.” 

“ Studies! There you are. Takes a course some¬ 
where—learns what other people have done and the 
methods they use. Learns what it would have 
taken years of experience to find out for himself. 
Isn’t that so? ” 

“ Uh-huh.” Angela picked up the brush again, 
recommenced her scrubbing vigorously. 

But Mrs. Day hadn’t finished. “ There must be 
courses in writing that would teach its technique to 
the novice,” she declared. " I’ve been thinking 
about it—wondering. Angela, why don’t you look 
the thing up? I believe you have talent.” 

It was thus that Mrs. Day, herself, unknowingly 
played the part of Calliope. Her grandmother’s 
suggestion sent Angela next day to the Public Li¬ 
brary to investigate, by means of catalogues, every 
department of English in every university of stand¬ 
ing in the country. And she found that she could 
live in New York City, in that same small apart¬ 
ment that they had leased for three years, since 

270 



ANGELA 

Columbia offered a course that was precisely what 
she wanted. 

She entered her class late that fall and presently 
she was caught up in the urge of her work and in 
the joy of it. The restlessness that had beset her 
since the Armistice was gone, or nearly. For, al¬ 
though she was undeniably happy in striving to¬ 
ward her one ambition, she still felt a certain lack¬ 
ing in her life, a certain promise that was, as yet, 
unfulfilled. 


2 

George Warbridge returned in January. Mrs. 
Day went to the door one afternoon and found him 
there, dapper as ever in his new civilian clothes. 

“ Good gracious, George! I thought you were 
the mail—home again, eh? My, but it’s fine to see 
you! ” 

She drew him into the foyer and took his hat. 
She could remember so many times that she had 
unbuttoned his little overcoat for him when he and 
Angela had come in from play. And now he was 
coming home from war. 

“ Go in, do. Angela’s out just now, but I expect 
her any minute. She’ll be delighted. You must tell 
me all about yourself.” 

George followed her into the living-room. 
“ Seems funny to find you people here.” 

Mrs. Day motioned him to a chair and picked up 
her embroidery. “ The old place, you know—we 

271 


MASQUES 

\ 

turned it over to the convalescent soldiers. I sup¬ 
pose they’ll go on using it for a time, and then, we 
have our lease on this apartment.” 

She paused and looked up at him expectantly, 
lines of interest appearing between her fine aquiline 
nose and the humorous corners of her mouth. 
“ George, you look so well. You weren’t 
wounded?” 

“Wounded?” George’s bead-like eyes, ordina¬ 
rily expressionless, snapped. “ Fine chance I had 
of being wounded. Didn’t get within fifty miles of 
the firing-line. Kept me back training the fellows.” 

He rose abruptly and crossed the room to a table 
in the corner. “ That’s awfully good. When did 
she have it taken? ” He picked up a photograph 
of Angela and studied it, unaware that Mrs. Day 
had followed him with an amused gaze. 

“ A few months ago.” Her tone was matter-of- 

fact. “ She-” Mrs. Day broke off at the sound 

of a key in the outer door. “ There she is, now! I 
thought you wouldn’t miss her.” 

George dropped the photograph hurriedly and 
faced about. 

i 

Angela was in the doorway. A winter wind had 
whipped her cheeks into a faint glow; the sage- 
green of her close hat brought out the robin’s-breast 
tinge of her hair. 

“ George! How splendid! ” 

She ran to him, grasped his hand in a hearty 
grip. “ I got your last letter, but I didn’t expect 

272 



ANGELA 


you as soon as this. How are you? What's the 
news? How’s everything? ” 

“ All right.” 

It was his same taciturn manner of shifting the 
conversational balance back to her, and Angela 
laughed. “ Good old George!—Nanna, haven’t you 
been able to make him talk? ” 

George shook his head. “ I haven’t anything to 
tell, honestly. I haven’t done anything. Now, take 
Malcolm Fahnstock—he could tell you some stories. 
He’s been in the thick of it.” 

“ Oh? Is Malcolm home? ” 

Her question was a trifle too cool, a trifle too off¬ 
hand. Mrs. Day noticed the inflection, but George 
didn’t.* 

“ He got in a couple of days before I did.” 

Angela smiled, as though in casual interest. In¬ 
wardly she felt an injured pang. Not that she 
cared particularly, but it would have been polite 
of Malcolm to let her know he was home, especially 
since he hadn’t replied to her last letter. She said 
lightly: “ I just had an invitation from Marian 
Ten Broek for a week-end party. It’s the first af¬ 
fair since the Armistice for me. Going, George? ” 

“ I don’t know the Ten Broeks well enough. 

Wish I did. Malcolm’s going. I tell you- 

George glanced about the room, became suddenly 
verbose. “ It seems good to be in a home again. 
I had just enough of a taste of war to appre¬ 
ciate -” 


273 




MasqVM 

But now that he was talking at last, Angela 
didn’t listen. Malcolm was going to the Ten 
Brocks. . . . She was trying to decide whether 

she was disappointed or pleased. 

“ George, you must stay to dinner.” It was Mrs. 
Day’s voice, boomingly cordial. 

And with a start, Angela came back to the pres¬ 
ent, and George. 


3 

“ Aw go on, Angela, don’t be a piker! ” 

Angela shook her head and tried to smile up at 
Jack Ten Broek who stood swinging a goblet to¬ 
ward her. “I hate to refuse my host anything. 
But—but I don’t like the stuff, you know.” 

Jack turned back to the group of girls and men 
who had flung themselves on and about the hearth. 

“ I ask you,” he blustered in mock temper. “ Is 
this a nice lady to have as your guest? Won’t do 
what you want her to do? Won’t drink what you 
want her to? All ri’-” with a gesture of sub¬ 

mission he raised the glass to his lips. “ Gotta 
drink it myself. All there is to do.” 

The crowd laughed and one of the girls called out 
shrilly: “ That’s the line, Jackie! Show us how you 
do it! ” and giggled sharply, squealingly. 

Saturday evening, and she must stay until Mon¬ 
day morning. Angela sighed. 

She hadn’t known the Ten Broeks thoroughly 
enough, she realized that fact too late. Marian 

274 



ANGELA 


Ellis had been a Shelborough girl but aside from 
that, Angela hadn’t known much about her. 

A very young, very newly-married couple, unused 
to the liberties that their present estate afforded 
them; the reaction of the war, the desire for fun so 
intensely sought that the result wasn’t worth the 
trouble. . . . Angela found herself in a rather 

uncomfortable position. 

But more than that, she was bored. Bored by the 
constant feverish activity, for the sake of doing 
something. Skating, tobogganing, dancing, bridge, 
poker, billiards. Any one sport she would have 
enjoyed, but they must do everything, they must 
keep going. And then, the bombardment of 
“ smart-talk,” which, when it was analyzed, wasn’t 
particularly smart. 

Her own generation Angela had been in the habit 
of dividing into two classes: the “ petters ” and the 
people who could enjoy life without that especial 
form of sport. Her friends, naturally, had been 
of the latter group for the most part, but this time 
she had fallen in with a crowd of Fitzgeraldites. It 
was awfully amusing; in one way Angela wouldn’t 
have missed it. But she had had enough; it was 
tiresome. 

Friday night a dance at the country club, fol¬ 
lowed by a supper which consisted mostly of bever¬ 
ages; then, in the morning, skating and hiking, 
cocktails, luncheon, coasting, pool, cocktails, 
bridge, cocktails, dinner. And now—cocktails. 

275 


MASQUES 

“What’ll we do to-night, huh?” Jack was rau¬ 
cously demanding. “ Must have a party. What’ll 
it he? ” 

Angela groaned inwardly and catching Malcolm 
Fahnstock’s eye across the room, turned away. She 
had avoided Malcolm as much as possible, so far, 
and he had made no attempt to force his compan¬ 
ionship upon her, although, she thought, he might 
have offered some excuse for not answering her 
letter. 

“ S’pose we go up to the Inn? Motor up, have a 
little supper, have a little dance. What-ho? ” 

The suggestion was greeted with wild acclaim. 
The girls ran up-stairs for their cloaks, while most 
of the men went out to the garage to get the cars. 
Angela hung behind, uncertain whether to plead 
fatigue, or whether it would be easier to go. 

“ I say—Angela! See here a minute! ” 

She swung about and saw that Malcolm was 
standing at the foot of the stairs. 

.“ Yes?” 

Her tone was cool, but he appeared not to notice 
that. “ You want to get out of this party, don’t 
you? ” he whispered. 

“Yes!” She forgot her pose of dignity in her 
eagerness. 

“ Then take your time—get your cloak—slowly. 
Be sure you’re the last girl down. I’ll fix it. Will 
you? ” 

“ Yes.” 


276 


ANGELA 


She ran up the stairs, went to her room, and 
waited in the dark until she heard the other girls 
noisily descend. 

“ Where’s Angela? ” Jack’s voice floated up 
from outside. 

“ Coming, I guess. I’ll wait for her.” It was 
Malcolm. “ I’ll drive her out in the roadster.” 

“ All right. See you later! ” 

And as the sound of the engines grew faint, 
Angela at last went down. 

“ Come on, get in.” 

Malcolm helped her into the car, then crawled 
behind the wheel. 

“ We’ll start off for the Inn,” he swung the motor 
out into the road, “ but we ain’t never goin’ to git 
there, Angel.” 

“ What are you going to do? ” 

Malcolm laughed. “ Aha! Secret stuff. . . . 
Gosh! What a party! ” 

She turned to him quizzically. “ I didn’t suppose 
you’d be shocked.” 

“Shocked?—Oh, you mean the drinks and all? 
No, I’m not shocked. But I’m getting too old—or 
—or maybe it’s the war. The gay life isn’t for me 
—I’m a poor working man—I can’t stand it. Any¬ 
how, this doesn’t strike me as gay enough for all 
the fuss.” 

t 

“ Where are you working? I didn’t know. . . .” 

“ Didn’t know? I wrote you I was going in with 
Dad, and he-” 


277 



MASQUES 

“ You wrote me? Then you did answer my let¬ 
ter? ” 

“Of course. Say—is that why I didn’t hear? 
And why I’ve been getting the well-known stony 
stare for the last twenty-four hours? Doggone! 
Didn’t you get my letter ? ” 

“ No. But it’s all right, as long as you did write. 
What I want to know now is—what are we doing, 
and—why? ” 

Malcolm pointed ahead. “ See that town we’re 
coming to? Before we get there, I hope—we’re go¬ 
ing to have an accident.” 

Angela started. “ What do you mean? ” 

“ When it comes to getting out of doing things 
that I don’t just want to do—I’m there, Angel, I’m 
there! ” 

“ You’re too mysterious.” 

She leaned back, gazed out over the dark fields 
and up into the black, moonless sky. And pres¬ 
ently he spoke again—anxiously. 

“ This blooming car is so good—I begin to won¬ 
der if-” 

But even as he spoke the engine quivered irreg¬ 
ularly. 

“ That’s the baby! ” Malcolm cried. 

They ran on a hundred feet, badly missing fire. 
Then, abruptly, the engine sighed and breathed its 
last. 

“ Malcolm—why! ” Angela’s startled voice rang 
out alarmed. 


278 



ANGELA 


“Why?” His own tone was ridiculously calm. 
“ You don’t want to go to the Inn, do you? Neither 
do I—and now we can’t. I fixed the engine before 
we started. Haven’t hurt the car much, and I’ll 
pay for the damage.” 

“ But—but how shall we get back? ” 

“ I thought of that, too-” he glanced at his 

wrist-watch. “ Train comes through this town at 
eleven-thirty. It’s the last train either way and it 
goes direct to New York. . . . Come, let’s find 
a garage!” . . . 

Early in the morning he left her at her door. 

“ You’re a good sport, Angel. I’ll say that for 
you. I was afraid you’d be awfully peeved.” 

“ Peeved-? Why ? ” 

“ Oh—my kidnapping you that way. But golly, 
I thought I’d take a chance. It made me just kind 
of sick to see you in with that bunch. Do you for¬ 
give me? ” 

“ Forgive you? ” she laughed. “ I’m—I’m grate¬ 
ful to you.” 

“ And—and now I’m home and you know I wrote 
you and everything—you’ll let me see you once in a 
while? ” 

Angela’s frank eyes smiled up at him. “Of 
course. . . . Good-night! ” 

In her own room she undressed quietly, careful 
not to disturb Mrs. Day. And when, finally, 
she opened her window, she stood there gazing 
out at the river that was like a broad stream of 

279 




MASQUES 

ink, and across at the black shadow of the 
Palisades. 

Malcolm had proven himself . . . there was 
something beneath that flippantly attractive sur¬ 
face, and she had found it. 


280 


CHAPTER IV 


1 

Angela found herself presently in a perplexing 
position. She saw a great deal of Malcolm, but his 
attitude bothered her. He had always had the 
reputation of being rather a flirt, but with her he 
seemed to carry things to an extreme. 

She didn’t know quite why, but somehow she dis¬ 
liked having him try to flirt with her. She wanted 
him to take her, as a friend, more seriously, not to 
consider her in the class ivith any girl whom he 
might have met at a dance. Hadn’t they known 
one another all their lives? That, surely, put their 
friendship in a different light. 

Then, too, she discovered that he interfered 
materially with her work. She was still struggling 
with her short stories and had received a number of 
encouraging letters from magazine editors, which 
had all the more strengthened her purpose to write. 
But she found, after an evening with Malcolm, that 
it was difficult to concentrate on the abstract, there 
was so much of interest to her in the tangible, in 
the concrete. It was against her better judgment 
that she continued to go out with him so frequently, 
but she stifled her conscience with the thought of 
“ getting material.” 

He took her to the Vandermore tea-room to dance 

281 


MASQUES 

one Saturday, after the matinee. That seemed to 
be the accepted place for their parties to “wind 
up,” perhaps because it reminded them both of that 
war-dance of the Officers’ Club. 

“ What is it—the usual? ” 

Angela nodded, and threw back her fur coat on 
the chair. “Yes. Cafe Parfait—you know—not 
tea.” 

Malcolm gave the order and rising, they went out 
to the dancing floor. He led her off and Angela 
fell easily into his swinging stride. A certainty 
about his leading, and yet no exasperating shoving. 
They seldom talked when they danced now; there 
was too ecstatic a joy in the sureness of what they 
were doing, in that perfect harmony of movement. 

Back at their table, Malcolm lit a cigarette. “ Did 
you see my mother out in the hallway while we were 
dancing? ” he demanded. “ She took you in, all 
right. Guess she was glad it was you.” 

“ Why so? ” 

“ Oh, you’re the kind of a girl that a mother likes 
her son to go with, you know. Joke of it is, the 
sons like it too. Especially this one.” 

“ But isn’t—this son rather easily pleased? I’ve 
been told that he has been in the past.” 

“ Aha! But the past is—the past. Little Mal¬ 
colm learned a thing or two during this last year, 
and not everything was military tactics. He got 
a sense of—well,—values. Or shall we say a sense 

of—discrimination-? ” 

282 



ANGELA 


Angela’s pale face flushed and slie glanced away. 
. . . He was trying to flirt again . . . she 

wished he wouldn’t. It didn’t please her; it—it 
almost pained her. But when she met his gaze 
again, he was laughing. 

“ Your pink cheeks go with your rose dress,” he 
said mischievously. Then, blowing a puff of smoke 
off into space, he remarked quite seriously: “ I like 
you in rose, Angel. You ought to wear more of it. 
Why don’t you? ” 

“ Rose isn’t supposed to go with red hair,” 
Angela answered firmly. 

“ But it does. On you—it looks—great! ” 

If any man says you’re pretty , you’ll know either 
that he’s a flirty or else he’s in love with you. 

Mrs. Day’s warning came back to Angela with 
sudden force, as it had so many times of late. She 
faced Malcolm, her frank eyes pleading. 

“ Mai—do we have to play this silly game? 
Can’t we be just—sensible—and friendly? ” 

He frowned, puzzled. “ Come again? ” 

u I mean-” she faltered. “ Oh, it’s awfully 

hard to explain, but—I wish you wouldn’t say the 
things that you do say to me. I’m not—good-look¬ 
ing. Why do you always pretend that you think 
so? It—it hurts me, Mai.” 

Malcolm shrugged. u Honestly, Angela, I don’t 
know what you’re raving about. I said—what I 
thought. I never said you were pretty. I don’t 
think you are. You’re so much more wonderful 

283 



MASQUES 

than just—‘ pretty.’ ” He bent over the table to¬ 
ward her and his lean face was boyishly earnest. 
“ Angela—I think you’re—beautiful.” 

Angela drew away, wide-eyed, breathing fast. 
But he continued swiftly in a more practical tone: 

“ Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not giving you 
the opportunity to throw me down. I know I 
wouldn’t stand a chance with you. I want things to 
be just as they are—as long as they can be. Until 
some other chap luckier than I am appears on the 
scene. Come on, now—let’s dance! ” 

He rose and waited for her to precede him to the 
open floor-sjjace. But she remained seated. “ I 
don’t think I want to dance, Mai,” she said simply. 
“ Perhaps I do misunderstand—but I think I’d 
rather stay right here and have you give me that 
opportunity to—throw you down. . . .” 

He took an eager step toward her, then pulled her 
almost roughly by the arm. “ Stay here? This 
is a fine place for a—proposal! Oh, Angela! 
Let’s get out of here—will you? Gosh! I never 
supposed-! ” 


2 

“ Well, what’s to become of your work? ” Mrs. 

Dav demanded. 

«> 

She had taken the engagement at the first with 
no great enthusiasm. She told Angela frankly 
that she preferred George Warbridge. But Mal- 

284 





ANGELA 


colni, at the last, had completely won her heart. 
George had always treated her with a venerating 
respect, hut Malcolm had insisted upon her accom¬ 
panying himself and Angela to the theater; he had 
even taken her to a cabaret. And since she had had 
nothing definitely against him at the start, this 
subtle attitude of his that she was still in the prime 
of youth undoubtedly had its effect. Now her only 
objection was that Angela seemed to have given up 
all thought of writing. 

“You haven’t any laurels to rest upon, yet, 
Angela. Are you going to give up your job before 
you’ve made good? ” 

But Angela waved aside her career with a sweep¬ 
ing gesture of her straight-fingered hand. “ Writ¬ 
ing is fun because—because you can build charac¬ 
ters and watch them grow. But they’re only make- 
believe. And now, maybe some day, when Mai and 
I are married ”—her frank eyes were soft,— 
“maybe there’ll be real little characters to help 
build and to watch grow. Nanna—isn’t that more 
worth while? ”... 

She had thought so much, in those months since 
she had accepted Mai, of children, and of their chil¬ 
dren. The idea that perhaps so soon she might be 
a mother, was frightening. She wondered if she 
were prepared, whether she were quite worthy to 
accept that accolade. She bought books on child¬ 
training, and studied them. It didn’t occur to her 
that she was premature, any more than if she had 

285 


MASQUES 

been studying, preparatory to entering college. 
She simply knew that she wanted a child of her 
own more than anything—she had known that in 
her heart ever since the afternoon in Santa Barbara 
when she had worked so desperately over the life¬ 
less small form of Margerie Joyce. And she^felt 
that a marriage, even with a love like hers and 
Malcolm’s, would be a forlorn and pitiable thing 
if it weren’t for the hope of such comple¬ 
tion. . . . 

During their engagement, they found that in 
many small ways their tastes were different. But 
Malcolm had solved that difficulty in a typically 
practical way. 

“ I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” he declared. 
“ We’ll have this thing fifty-fifty. You go to vaude¬ 
ville with me, and I’ll go to opera with you. How’s 
that? ” 

So Angela had gone to see Chic Sale and had 
laughed until she cried, and she had taken Malcolm 
to Aida which he pronounced “ pretty good stuff.” 

The affiance was to have been announced the fol¬ 
lowing December, but Malcolm was suddenly called 
south on business. He broke the news to Angela 
while they were taking their usual Sunday after¬ 
noon walk in Central Park. 

“ I’m awfully sorry, Angel,” he finished earnestly. 
u But you see how it is. Dad has given me this 
chance and I’ve got to take it. Don’t you think 
so?” 


286 


ANGELA 


“ I suppose. But—but doesn’t your father know 
about—us? ” 

He shook his blond head. “ I tried to hint to 
him, sort of. But if I’d told him, I’d have had to 
tell Mother and then there would have been a fuss.” 

“ A fuss? ” 

“Yes. Oh, you don’t know Mother! She likes 
you a lot, but when it comes to you or any other 
girl marrying her first-born—the sparks are going 
to fly, that’s all. I thought I’d better let the thing 
slide until we announced it.” 

Angela laughed. “Wise boy! Well, as long as 

you have to go south-” she drew her coat about 

her and shivered. “ You’ve chosen the best time of 
year! ” 

Malcolm glanced about at the park with its bar¬ 
ren trees and bleak brown lawns. “ It will seem 
good to see things green,” he admitted. He turned 
to her with abrupt eagerness. “ But I don’t want 
to go. I want to stay where you are, Angel.” 

“ Where is it that you’re going? ” Angela queried 
practically. 

“ Georgia. Down where my mother’s people 
come from. I’ve never been there before. Suppose 
I’ll be out doing business for Dad all day and chin¬ 
ning with my long-lost relatives all evening. But 
then, there’ll be your letters! ” 

They were nearing that circular artificial lake on 
which the small boys of the east side of the city sail 
their toy boats. 


287 



MASQUES 

“ Look! ” Angela cried. “ Isn’t he darling, Mai? 
Look at that little fellow! ” 

With all the serious effort of his four years a 
child in red sweater and cap was sitting on the edge 
of the pool, adjusting the sail on his boat. 

“ Pretty big job you’ve got there, isn’t it, kid? ” 
Malcolm bent over the child, watched his fat 
fingers struggling with the sail. 

“ Thith ith wrong here,” the boy replied, pointing 
to a loose screw. “You fixth it.” 

“ I don’t know whether I can,” Malcolm laughed. 
“ Here, maybe this will do it.” He pulled out his 
penknife and tightened the screw. “ Try that now.” 

The child took the boat soberly, laid it on the 
water’s surface. The sail stood upright, then, with 
a sudden gust of wind, the tiny craft shot out 
swiftly toward the middle of the pool. 

“ Bay—hoooraaaay! ” the child howled, and he 
danced off gleefully, anxious to reach the other side 
of the lake, to meet his boat. 

Angela and Malcolm turned to one another and 
smiled. 

“ And five years from now-” Malcolm began. 

“ Say, Angel—I’m awfully glad that you like them, 
too. . . 

That evening, Angela told her grandmother of 
their afternoon. 

“We talked it all over,” she concluded, “and 
we’re going to consult each other always, when they 
need to be punished, or when they want something 

288 



ANGELA 


they shouldn't have. Then, when we decide, there 
won’t be any difficulty about enforcing our com¬ 
mands—as long as we stand together. Don’t you 
think that’s a good plan? ” 

Mrs. Day had been sitting with her embroidery 
in her lap, during her granddaughter’s recitation. 
Her fine old eyes were startled, her humorous 
mouth drawn tight. 

“Angela Day! You don’t mean that you and 
Malcolm were actually talking about those 
things? ” 

Angela’s gaze was frank. “ Why not? Is there 
any reason why I shouldn’t talk about my children 
to—the man I love? ” 

Mrs. Day sighed. “ O, tempora, O, mores! In 

my generation-” she broke off. Then she 

scowled, and picked up her needlework. u No, 
Angela. I’m sure I don’t know why you shouldn’t.” 
And her deep, stern voice was challenging. 

3 

Malcolm telephoned the next day. 

“ I’ve got to leave on the two-thirty, and I’ll stop 
for you in a taxi. You’re supposed to come and see 
me off, you know\” 

Angela slipped into a coat and tucked her terra¬ 
cotta locks under a blue feather toque. She stood 
by the living-room window watching for Malcolm; 
presently his taxi pulled up before the door. She 

ran down and he helped her in. 

289 



MASQUES 

“ I’m going with you, and then I’m going up to 
Mme. Darquenne’s to see if my hat is ready. It’s 
rose-colored. You’ll like it.” 

“That’s good.” He took one of her hands. 
“Gloves? Why do you wear the rotten things? 
That’s better.” 

“Mai—I wish you weren’t going away.” She 
laughed half-heartedly. “ It’s silly, but I’m nerv¬ 
ous.” 

“ You’re afraid I’ll fall for one of those Georgia 
peaches, huh? ” 

She squeezed his hand. “ No. But it’s the first 
time we’ve been separated.” 

“ I know, Angel. Hang it! I wish I didn’t have 
to go! ” 

They rode in silence for a time. Then, almost 
before they realized, they were in the Pennsylvania 
Station. 

Angela raised her face to his, at the gate to the 
train. “ Kiss me just as if I were your wife, dear. 
Nobody’ll know the difference—they don’t know 
us.” 

But the kiss that Malcolm gave her was not of 
the commonplace, husbandly sort. . . . Angela 
blushingly fled from the station. 

There was a bright, cheerful sun that December 
day, and crossing Thirty-fourth Street, her spirits 
rose. Now that Malcolm was actually gone she felt 
herself again, the same self that she had been since 
Malcolm and she had found each other. There was 

290 


ANGELA 


a bloom on everything, these days; Angela saw 
visions and she dreamed dreams. There was no 
sense of lacking now. 

Passing up the Avenue, she turned into Mine. 
Darquenne’s shop. She had just stepped inside 
when she caught sight of a familiar figure out of 
the corner of her eye. She swung about and ran 
back. 

“ Vee! Yee! Stop a minute! ” 

It was Vera Henny, as handsome and as perfectly 
poised as ever. 

“Why, Angela! How are you? So nice to see 
you! ” 

“Why haven’t I heard from you?” Angela de¬ 
manded. “What’s the news? Why haven’t you 
written? ” 

Vera smiled coolly. “Haven’t you read the 
news? It’s been in all the papers. I’m engaged. 
Didn’t you hear? ” 

So that wonderful thing had happened to Vera, 
too. Angela caught her breath. 

“No—Vera, really? To whom? Do I know 
him?” 

“Edward Storm.” Vera shrugged. “Possibly 
you do—he’s a member of the Iris Club.” 

“No, I don’t. But—the Iris Club? Perhaps 
George Warbridge knows him then. I must ask 
him. . . . Vera, dear,” Angela took one of 

Vera’s cool hands and pressed it in her own, “ I’m 

so glad you’re happy. I—I’m happy, too. I-” 

291 



MASQUES 

But a salesgirl interrupted. “ Your hat is ready 
to try on, Miss Day. Mme. Darquenne is waiting.” 

“ Oh, dear! ” Angela exclaimed. “ I wanted to 
talk to you and now—but can’t I see you some other 
time? ” 

“ I’m being married next month,” Vera replied. 
“ Will you come to my wedding? You’ve moved, 
haven’t you? ” 

“ Yes. Three thousand, Riverside Drive. Do 
send me an invitation! ” 

Angela dashed off, following the salesgirl. 

And as she tried the new rose hat on her head, 
she saw her flushed and radiant face in the glass. 

Oh, mercy. . . . Why couldn’t she be calm 
and collected, like Vera? Joy stuck out all over 
her like pin-feathers. ... It was absurd. 

4 

But no letters came from Malcolm. At first An¬ 
gela decided that business had been so strenuous 
that he hadn’t had time. Then panic struck her. 

“ I don’t understand, Nanna. It isn’t like him. 
It can’t be that—some other girl—that he-” 

“ I shouldn’t worry,” Mrs. Day affirmed emphat¬ 
ically. “ If he’s that sort, he isn’t worth your while. 
But ”—she shook her head—“ I don’t believe he is. 
You wait and see. It’ll be explained.” 

And Angela waited. Waited until by the sched¬ 
ule he had given her, she knew that he must have 
returned to New York. Waited one week more, 

292 



ANGELA 

then swallowed her pride in her anxiety and tele¬ 
phoned his home. 

His voice, when he answered, was strained: 

“ Yes, I’m home again. ... I want to see 
you. . . . May I—may I come over now? ” 

She spent a frightened, fretful half-liour before 
he appeared. And his face, when he finally came, 
sent a chilled alarm to her heart. Something was 
terribly wrong . . . perhaps—perhaps he had 

found that he didn’t love her, after all. . . . 

“ Mai—what is it? Tell me right away! ” 

He took her hand and pressed it silently, without 
offering to kiss her. He was paler than she had 
ever seen him, and there was a stoop to his slim, 
square shoulders. Together they went into the 
living-room and he flung himself on the wide 
divan. 

u I’m a rotten slacker,” he moaned. “ I didn’t 
have the courage to come before.” 

She dropped down beside him. “ Courage? 
But why, Mai? ” 

“ It’s—it’s—horrible.” His blue eyes turned to 
her piteously. “ I—I don’t know how to tell you.” 

She stiffened. “ I think I understand. You 
mean—you don’t—care for me—any more? ” 

u Care? I care more than ever. It’s because I 

care so much that-” He took out his cigarette 

case and then he forgot to open it. Instead, he 
jumped up nervously and crossed the room. Oh, 
what’s the use? ” He swung about. “ I might as 

293 



MASQUES 

well tell you—I’ve got to. Angel—I—I can’t— 
marry you.” 

The words fell meaninglessly. 

“ But if you love me, Mai? ” 

She couldn’t understand; it was as if he had lost 
all reasonable thought. She caught his hand and 
gently pulled him down beside her again, and she 
spoke as she would have soothed a disturbed child, 
quietly, encouragingly: 

“ Now, tell me from the beginning. Tell me.” 

“ Well—it was down in Georgia. Lord, I wish 
I’d never gone there! I—I found out something 
about my mother’s family that nobody knows—not 
Mother—not Milly—nobody.” 

“ Yes? ” Angela’s gentle tone was questioning. 

“ This old great-uncle of mine—I never saw him 
before, but he knows all about us. Angel, he says 
—he says ” 

“ What, dear? ” 

“ That—that in our family there’s a sort of a— 
a curse. It may break out any time. He says that 
my great-grandparents were deaf and dumb—he re¬ 
members them. And every two or three genera¬ 
tions that comes out. Don’t you see? . . . Oh, 

what are we going to do? What—am I—going to 
do?” 

Her hand trembled in his. “ But, Mai—there’s 
your mother and you—and Milly—and Milly’s 
baby!” 

“ Oh, I know. It’s all right, so far—thank God! 

294 



ANGELA 


But—but there’s no knowing. And I can’t—I can’t 
let you. . . .” He drew his hand away and put 
it over his eyes. “ I wouldn’t feel so strongly—-but 
there ivas another family down there—and they had 
children—little, pitiful things that couldn’t speak 
or hear, and just looked at you and—oh, I can’t let 
you! I mustn’t! ” 

They sat there silently, for a moment, and at last 
Angela’s voice came. “ Then, I guess for us it’s— 
the end.” 

His blond head was bent forward and, leaning to¬ 
ward him, she smoothed his yellow hair with quiet, 
motherly fingers. 

“Oh, Angel, if I’d only known before!” he 
groaned. “ If I could have spared you! But ”— 
his blue eyes sought hers with tragic earnestness, 
“ but I want you to find someone else—someone 
who’ll love you and take care of you. I "want you 
to have those blessed children of yours! ” 

Angela gave a sad little smile. “ But it isn’t the 
children I want now, Mai. It’s—you! ” 

He took her in his arms and kissed her pale 
cheeks, her draw T n, tight-lipped mouth. She wasn’t 
Weeping; she had never been the crying kind. She 
only knew that the candle of their hopes had been 
snuffed out; the altar of their love was dark and 
desolate. 

Abruptly he pushed her away. “ This isn’t right. 
It’s only making it harder for us.” He rose. “ In 
the romantic days people used to pine aw r ay from 

295 


MASQUES 

things like this. But it isn’t done now.” He tried 
to laugh. “No, Angel—you and I—we’ve got to 
—snap out of it! ” 

He bent over and once more taking her hand, he 
laid his lean cheek against it. “ I mustn’t see you 
again. It wouldn’t be playing fair,” he said simply. 
“ But I love you, Angel. And I’ll always be loving 
you. . . . Good-bye. . . 

She sat there, dazed, looking at the hand that he 
had held, trying to realize that he had gone, and 
that she couldn’t call him back. Then she rose, 
squared her shoulders, drew her lips into a fine, 
firm line. Not for her to be the drooping damozel. 

“ He’s right,” she murmured. “ I’ve got to— 
* snap out of it ’! ” 


/ 


296 


CHAPTER V 


1 

The nights were the hardest times. There was 
always the dream that, by some dreadful mistake, 
she and Malcolm had married, and then there were 
the children—the children who couldn’t speak, who 
couldn’t hear her voice—they stretched out their 
beseeching arms to her; their pitiful presence 
haunted her. 

And even in the daytime there were ordeals. 
Vera’s wedding came almost immediately after the 
breaking of her own romance. The ceremony was 
exceptionally simple; evidently it was quite a com¬ 
pliment to have been asked. But the sight of her 
schoolmate’s joy opened up the channels of An¬ 
gela’s regrets; she wouldn’t have attended the wed¬ 
ding if she hadn’t given Vera her promise. 

It was in her work that Angela found a refuge. 
She had begun a novel; she pretended an enthusi¬ 
asm that she didn’t in the least feel. Her final 
reward was a genuine interest that took her mind 
away from her lonely thoughts and made her less 
unhappily introspective. 

Mrs. Day watched her with an eagle eye, encour¬ 
aged her in her writing, and once the story of the 
severed engagement was told, made no further ref- 

297 



MASQUES 

erence to it. She did, however, advise Angela in 
regard to George Warbridge. 

“ George is a nice boy, and he thinks a great deal 
of you, Angela. I hope you won’t hurt him any 
more than you can help.” 

“ Hurt him? ” Angela was startled. “ 'VYhy, 
!N T anna, why should I? I think a great deal of him, 
too.” 

“ I know—but it’s different.” 

Angela thought a moment in silence, then patted 
her grandmother’s shoulder affectionately. “ Dear 
old Xanna. You’re so sentimental, aren’t you? 
But get that out of your head—please! ” she 
laughed. “ There isn’t a thing in it.” 

In spite of her light words, Mrs. Day’s suggestion 
left Angela wondering. Oddly enough, it hadn’t 
occurred to her before that George might be offer¬ 
ing himself to her as anything else beside a very 
good and very pleasant friend. And as she con¬ 
sidered that other possibility now, she didn't for a 
moment believe it was true. Still, it was a possi¬ 
bility and as such, it vaguely worried her. 

“ If you could have seen the way he looked at 
your picture! ”—Mrs. Day didn’t let her first in¬ 
sinuation stop at that; she made the reasons for her 
beliefs perfectly definite until Angela, though not 
completely convinced of the fact, nevertheless de¬ 
cided to be on the side of the cautious. 

She made her work her excuse when George 
asked to call thereafter. For she couldn’t, couldn't 

293 


ANGELA 


risk making him suffer what she had so recently 
been forced to face. She cared too much for George 
to take that chance. 

His voice over the telephone at first was disap¬ 
pointed, then there was a hurt quality that made 
her wince. Finally he stopped calling her up. He 
understood. 

She saw no more of him that year until spring 
when she ran into him on Madison Avenue one 
afternoon. He gave her a polite but formal bow as 
he passed, and she noticed that he seemed more 
pompous. People told her, later, that he was drink¬ 
ing heavily. 


o 

There was an event that year which was of par¬ 
ticular comfort to Angela. Miss O’Brien, the 
actress whom she had known in Santa Barbara, 
came to see her one day without warning. 

“ Why—but I thought you-•” Angela’s eyes 

widened with amazement as she drew the girl into 
the apartment. “I never heard from you, and 


Miss O’Brien laughed. In the brighter light of 
the living-room, her new plumpness was more no¬ 
ticeable. “ Sure, I knew you’d think I was dead. 
Well, I was pretty nearly, the first year. Your 
letters were all forwarded to me from Santa Bar¬ 
bara, But I was afraid to answer them for fear 

you’d send me more money.” 

299 




MASQUES 

They sat down together on the divan, Miss 
O’Brien’s keen glance sweeping Angela’s figure. 
“ Say, you’re not so well yourself, are you now? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” Angela answered swiftly. “ I’m quite 

all right, I-” 

“ Had trouble, haven’t you? ” 

Angela started. “ Y-y-yes. How did you 
know? ” 

“ I guess I’ve had so much myself, I kind of know 
the marks.” She stretched out her hand in her 
boyish way. “ I’m sorry.” 

Angela gave it a friendly pat. “ Thanks. . . . 

People like you—help a lot.” She forced a smile. 
“ But tell me about Colorado,” she said briskly. 
a Have you been there all the time? My! You’re 
so changed. It’s splendid! ” 

Miss O’Brien nodded eagerly. “ I’m fine now. 
Just fine. I couldn’t do much of anything at first. 
Then I got a little better. Later, I was able to take 
a job in the hospital in Denver—filing. I saved up 
enough money out of my salary to come on to New 
York for my vacation. And here I am.” 

“ I’m so glad you came to me. I’ve thought of 
you these last three years.” 

“ Maybe you have. But I’ve thought of you night 
and day—honest.” The girl nodded in emphasis. 
She went on wistfully: “ I don’t know what it is 
that’s a sorrow to you. I don’t want you to tell me 
if you don’t care to. But just let me say this much: 
If it hadn’t been for you, I’d have wasted away out 

300 



ANGELA 


there in Santa Barbara and nobody would have 
bothered. And if it hadn't been for the thought of 
you, I'd have died of loneliness that first year in 
Colorado. Remember that, and maybe sometime 
the thought’ll be a comfort." 

Angela's pale face lighted. “ Oh, I'd like to think 
that I had helped you—after the way I hurt you 
. . . and that you forgave me? " 

Miss O’Brien laughed harshly to conceal the 
break in her voice. “ Of course I forgave you. 
Didn't you say we were—friends? " 


o 

Six months it took Angela to finish her novel. 
And when she finally typed the last page, she burst 
into her grandmother's room and threw herself 
wearilv on the bed. 

t/ 

“ It's—it's simply a disgrace!" she moaned. 
u It's—it's the best that's in me, and see how—how 
perfectly awful it is! " 

Mrs. Day crossed the room with an emphatic 
tread and seated herself beside Angela’s prostrate 
figure. “ It's good work. I guess I know it as well 
as anybody." 

“ You're prejudiced, ISTanna. I've been wasting 
my time. I'll never send it out." 

“ Not send it out! " Mrs. Day bent swiftly for¬ 
ward and snatched the typewritten sheets from An¬ 
gela's hand. “ Very well—then I shall! I'll be 

301 


MASQUES 

your business agent, if you haven’t spine enough to 
do it for yourself.” 

And Mrs. Day kept her word. At the first pub¬ 
lisher’s rejection she gave Angela a vehement 
and mordant oration on editorial unintelligence. 
Then, undaunted, she sent the manuscript else¬ 
where. 

But the periods between the publishers’ decisions 
were most trying, especially for the older woman. 
Angela had small hope of selling the novel; the 
more she reread it, the more convinced she was of 
its literary worthlessness. Mrs. Day, on the other 
hand, was certain of its eventual success. That was 
why, she told Angela, the delay in its acceptance 
seemed the harder to endure. 

“ I declare, this time, if the Andrews Company 
don’t take it, I’ll wash my hands of all publishers! 
But don’t lose hope. You’ll see! ” 

Finally, almost as Mrs. Day herself gave up all 
ambitions for the novel, it was unexpectedly ac¬ 
cepted. 

“ We like very much your work in 6 The Upper 
Ten.’ Will you come to our office as soon as pos¬ 
sible and talk the matter over? ” 

Angela’s wide-set eyes were dazed; she turned to 
her grandmother for an explanation. 

“ I told you! What did I say? ” Mrs. Day was 
hoarse with excitement. “ Now you can write for 
the rest of your life. Your future is settled! ” 

302 


ANGELA 

And Angela nodded silently as the light broke 
upon her, then. 

After all, she wouldn't be one of life's slackers, 
living in that might-have-been world. Things 
ahead, perhaps, weren't glowing as they had been 
when . . . But at least, she had found a fu¬ 

ture. 


4 

“ Miss Day's first effort is called by the publish¬ 
ers ‘ a satire on society.' We think it very like Miss 
Daisy Ashford's work. . . .” 

“ Crude, callow, and ingenue. Probably will be 
read by the lovers of Little Women. . . 

“ Keminds us of the much-used vaudeville phrase, 
‘snappy, but clean’—except that it lacks the 
snap. . . 

“Why on earth ‘The Upper Ten'? The name 
doesn't mean anything, the book not much more. 
In this sudden passion of the publishers for the 
work of young writers, pity the poor critics! We 
are literally and literarily cracking under the 
strain. . . .” 

Angela read all criticisms eagerly. The fact that 
her book had been accepted, that its sale up to date 
was exceptional, didn't prove that she was a good 
writer, and she knew it. She was buoyed up by the 
fact that she had happened to hit upon something 
that the public seemed to like; she was depressed 
because it hadn't been better received by the critics. 

303 


MASQUES 

But whereas they objected so strenuously to her 
immaturity, it w T as this very youth upon which she 
based her hopes. She was young, thank heaven— 
young enough to learn to correct her mistakes! 

The letters of congratulation came pouring in 
from every quarter. People whom she had met 
years before and had never seen since, wrote to her. 
But what delighted her particularly were the notes 
from other writers, because they knew, they appre¬ 
ciated the struggle that she had had, the struggle 
that she would always have. 

She came in late one afternoon, after a brisk walk 
on the Avenue. She liked to pass the shops and see 
the volumes of her book banked in the windows. It 
gave her a childlike thrill. 

As she opened the apartment door, she stooped 
to pick up the mail that had been left there. And 
she caught her breath as she saw the top envelope, 
battered, soiled, and torn. It was the letter that 
Malcolm had sent from overseas, at last delivered. 

She went into her room and with trembling 
fingers, tore open the note and read it. It was flip¬ 
pant and it was misspelled and—she loved it. . . . 

There was another envelope—from The Shelbor- 
ough School. She slit it listlessly. The invitation 
to the five-yearly reunion and a few lines from Mrs. 
Shelborough, enclosed: 

“ Fm so glad you’ve succeeded. You’ve done just 
what you wanted to flo more than anything else, 

304 



ANGELA 

haven't you? You’ve written your novel, and you’ve 
found fame.” 

She laid the note aside and once more picked up 
Malcolm’s dilapidated letter. 

The reunion . . . well, she wouldn’t let the 

others see that she wasn’t happy. ... To 
them, she’d show a jubilant front. Like Mrs. Shel- 
borough, they would think that she had fulfilled her 
heart’s desire, now that she was famous. 

But—fame? Angela smoothed'the torn paper in 
her hand with a simple, tragic tenderness. What 
did so little a thing as fame matter? 


i 


305 




EPILOGUE 











EPILOGUE 


1 

“And now you come to us with that deeper, fuller 
knowledge that Life has taught you—you return to 
us for one brief, flitting moment before taking wing 
again. . . 

Dr. Shelborough's office reverberated witli the 
sound of his own quivering voice. To-morrow a re¬ 
union, and another speech. 

His wife, seated at the desk Avith her customary 
squeaky pen, glanced up uncertainly, her light eye¬ 
brows raised. “ That’s so good, Bert . . . but 
haven’t you said something like that before? ” 

He greeted her meek question with a frown. He 
folded his wide hands and glared down at her with 
sel f-important ind ignation. 

“ My dear-” his endearment was patronizing 

and it was not untouched by sarcasm. “ My dear, 
there is nothing true and nothing beautiful that has 
not been said before. It is all—h’mmm—in the 
manner in which you say it.” 

She nodded submissively and went back to her 
work. 

It was always the same: the same speeches, the 
same curriculum, the same problems. Those girls, 
to-morrow, would find things quite unchanged. 

309 



MASQUES 

Presently Mrs. Shelborough paused in her writ¬ 
ing, and looked up. Her husband was standing 
with his back toward her, his thick-fingered hands 
clasped behind him. He was gazing up at the roto¬ 
gravure of the Acropolis, just as he had gone to it 
unfailingly for inspiration during all the thirty 
years that he had acted as principal and owner of 
the school. His gray toupee was as neat as ever; 
his schoolmaster manner as soothingly condescend¬ 
ing. 

And Mrs. Shelborough sighed. . . . Would 
those girls, those three whom she had loved—would 
they have fallen into a rut, too? Or would they be 
different, would they, as she hoped, be finer? 

Mildred and Vera had married; Angela had writ¬ 
ten a book. They had said on that day, five years 
ago, that they would make their own futures, and 
she wondered. . . . Had they actually suc¬ 
ceeded in that uneven match against fate—had they 
won? 

“ Pm sorry to interrupt your thoughts-” Hr. 

Shelborough had swung about, “ But those cards 
—they really must go out this afternoon.” 

She caught the irony of his tone, and she flushed 
deeply. “I’m sorry. IPs—I was just thinking. 
The reunion to-morrow, you know, and it will be the 
first time Pve seen Mildred and Yera and Angela 
since-” 

“ But, my dear—haven’t I told you again and 
again not to be foolishly sentimental about any of 

310 




EPILOGUE 


the graduates? We're through with them, don’t 
you understand? Now, if you cared to be nice to 
that little Emily Sturgis in the sophomore class, 
that would be different. She has some younger sis¬ 
ters who will be coming along, some day, and-” 

“ Yes, Bert, but-” 

She was always starting to retort, then giving in 
to him helplessly. She commenced to write with 
obedient alacrity. In a moment the squeak of her 
pen was the one monotonous sound in that smugly 
well-appointed office. Dr. Shelborough had re¬ 
turned to his Acropolis. 


o 

The reunion that day was particularly large; 
there was only one vacant place—Vera's. Ac¬ 
counts of her tragic accident had appeared in the 
morning papers. 

Whispers: “ My dear,—isn't it dreadful? " “ I 
nearly fainted when I read it! " “ That just proves 

that you never know what will happen from one 
day to the next! " . . . 

Everyone was round-eyed, horrified, thrilled. 
Vera had never been beloved; she was more idol¬ 
ized now than ever before. 

A long table set in the reception room of the 
school. At its head Dr. Shelborough presiding in 
solemn grandeur, his wife insignificant beside him, 
swallowed up in his larger presence. The thirteen 

311 




MASQUES 

members of the class of 1916 banking the sides of 
the table. 

Mildred and Angela had chosen places as far 
from the principal as possible. Mildred was weep¬ 
ing into her grapefruit. 

“ To think that we promised that we’d all come 
back—we three—and tell what had happened to 

us in these five years. And now, Vera-” she 

choked. 

Angela put an arm around Milly’s plump shoul¬ 
ders. “ There now—don’t cry. It isn’t going to do 
any good. . . . But—but what kills me is that 

she had my book under her arm when she-” 

They fell silent. Presently Milly wiped her eyes. 
“ It certainly isn’t a very happy party, is it? Poor 
Mrs. Shelborough! I feel so sorry for her. She 
thought a lot of Vera.” 

Angela nodded. “ Let’s signal to her to come 
down here with us between courses. Maybe we 
could comfort her.” 

Mrs. Shelborough somewhat stealthily joined the 
two girls a moment later. 

“ I wanted to sit with you from the start, but the 
doctor thought I ought to be at the head, with 
him,” she explained. “ I think he’s forgotten about 
me now, though. He’s reading the notes for his 
speech—he had to change it when he heard about 
the accident.” 

Angela smiled faintly. “ I suppose that would 
offer him an—opportunity.” 

312 





EPILOGUE 


Mrs. Shelborough gave an absent nod. 66 1 was 
afraid you might have been telling each other your 
stories before I could come to you,” she said tim¬ 
idly. “ I wanted so much to hear what you two 
girls have done. Of course we know about Vera— 

- -w.* 

she was so splendid! Will you tell me about your¬ 
selves? ” 

“ Why, I thought-” Milly stammered. 

Angela faltered: “ Oh, did you expect us 
to-? ” 

They had tacitly abandoned the idea of recount¬ 
ing their lives, now that the triangle w T as broken. 
The omission would have been something of a relief 
to both. But Angela bravely faced the new contin¬ 
gency. If Mrs. Shelborough wanted to hear, they 
had certainly promised. 

“ Of course we’ll tell you.” 

She arranged the events of the five years swiftly 
in her mind, unconsciously selecting certain occur¬ 
rences that she was willing to have them know, dis¬ 
carding others—the more sacred phases of her 
life, the ones that had, in actuality, affected her 
most deeply. Valiantly she adjusted the smiling 
masque that was to hide the bitterness beneath. 

u I’m sorry that it won’t make a more interesting 
story. . . . The first year Grandmother and I 

went west, then I came back and did war work. 
The third year I played around—didn’t do much of 
anything but have a good time, and I w r rotc a little. 
The fourth year I—well, it was a good deal like the 

313 




MASQUES 

third. . . . And last year I wrote my novel. 
Is that a satisfactory account of myself? ” 

Mrs. Shelborough’s eyes were wistful. ‘And 
are you happy, dear? ” 

“ Don’t you think I ought to be? ” Angela 
laughed. 

“ Yes, and it’s fine.” Mrs. Shelborough turned to 
Mildred. “ And you, Milly—won’t you tell us all 
that’s happened to you? ” 

Milly’s hand fluttered to her yellow hair and 
across her forehead. The disguise, in her case, 
was so easily put on. She had only to giggle, widen 
her baby eyes, and start: “ There isn’t much to tell. 

. . . I—I eloped, you know. I-” Her pink 

and white face lighted. “ I married the best look¬ 
ing man—I want you both to meet him. We have 
a darling baby, a boy. He’s so good! He never 
cries and he has the sweetest temper! We’re— 
we’re living up-town just now, but I hope we’ll find 
a place in Morristown or Greenwich before 
long-” 

“And so you’re happy, too?” Mrs. Shelborough 
gently inquired. 

“Happy?” Milly cooed. “Why, Henry and I 
have never had a word! Not one solitary word! ” 

But Dr. Shelborough, at the head of the table, 
had discovered his wife’s absence. He beckoned 
to her peremptorily, and she rose. 

“ I must go-” she murmured hurriedly. “ He 

needs me.” 


3H 





EPILOGUE 


They watched her as she took her lowly place 
beside him, in the shade of his square elbow. Then 
they turned to one another again, awkwardly, un¬ 
certain how to recommence the conversation. 

“ That dress of yours, Milly—it’s awfully attrac¬ 
tive,” Angela began. 

“ Do you like it?” Milly cried. “You know 
Henry adores this dress. It came from Mme. Dar- 
quenne’s. He—he always likes me to go there.” 

“ Rather a nice sort of husband to have,” declared 
Angela. “ One with good taste and—a generous 
purse. Eh, Milly? ” 

Milly’s pink skin grew pinker. “Well,—Henry 
is doing so splendidly in business, and everything. 
He’s so clever. And he always insists that I have 
what I want, regardless of cost. You know how 
men are—or maybe you don’t. Why haven’t you 
married, Angela? Don’t you like men?” 

“No, it isn’t that,” Angela denied. “It’s sim¬ 
ply -” she smiled gaily. “ Oh, you know—I’m 

wedded to my work! ” 

There was a fortunate hush just then. Dr. Sliel- 
borough had risen. He was clasping his thick fin¬ 
gers across his abdomen; it was evident that he was 
about to make his address. He cleared his throat. 

“ It has been a great shock to me, to all of us, to 
learn the . . . death ... of one of our 

loved graduates. Mrs. Vera Hennv Storm has 
upheld the traditions of the school so nobly ”— 
(sniff) “that we may always point to her name 

315 




MASQUES 

and honor it. My heart is bursting with the sor¬ 
row that has come upon us.” (His handkerchief 
raised to his eyes.) “ Little Vera ! How well I re¬ 
member her happy ways, her sweet, lovable person¬ 
ality—so unselfish, so ready to give the helping 
hand to others, no matter how humble! And I 
think, dear friends” (hoarsely, brokenly), “we 
may take her final act as a fitting example of the 
countless deeds that she so modestly accomplished 
every day of her short life. 

“ She was walking with her dog, her little pet 
dog that she loved with all her tender heart. And 
that Pekingese broke away and she saw the wheels 
of a surface car bearing down upon her love. Hid 
she hesitate? Hid she Hindi from the path of sacri¬ 
fice? iSTot she! She gave up her life—her most 
precious life—for the poor little helpless creature! 
That, my friends, was the Vera Henny whom we 
knew and loved. . . 

People don’t want to see us as we are any more 
than we wish to expose ourselves. Masques? 
Even in death we can’t escape them. 


3 

As Angela and Mildred came out of the school 
door, Milly made a babyish gesture toward Fifth 
Avenue. 

“ I’m going over there to do some shopping. 
Which way do you go? ” 


316 



EPILOGUE 


“ It doesn’t matter,” Angela replied. “ I’ll go 
along with you. I’ve nothing in particular to do.” 

They started walking west. Mildred’s plump 
figure toddled beside Angela with an engagingly 
childlike tread. 

“ I think I’ll see whether I can get another hat,” 
she announced. “ Henry likes this one, but it’s 
sort of big. I want a smaller hat.” 

She was trying desperately to make the conver¬ 
sation seem easy; she had no intention of buying 
anything, but Angela and she had so little in com¬ 
mon now. She began again: “ I really ought to be 

starting home. It takes me so long-” she 

paused. That subject might lead to embarrass¬ 
ment. She didn’t want Angela to know in quite 
how impossible a place she lived. Suddenly an idea 
struck her; there was something she could talk 
about and at least it was amusing. 

“ The funniest thing happened this morning, 
Angela. Wait till you hear! It’s a scream! ” 

“ Do tell me,” Angela encouraged. u Don’t leave 
me in suspense like this! ” 

“ Well-” Milly took a deep breath. “ It’s a 

long story, but it all came out to-day in a letter 
that Mother got from some relatives of hers down 
south. It seems that we have an old great-uncle 
down in Georgia who has just died.” 4 
Angela started. “ Oh . . . But—but surely 
that isn’t the joke? ” 

“ Not that part of it. The funny part is that he’s 

317 




MASQUES 

been sort of in bis dotage for years, they say, and 
the family has just found out that he’s been spread¬ 
ing around all kinds of things about us that aren't 
true. Why—Angela, what’s the matter? ” 

Angela gripped Milly’s plump arm. “ Go on— 
please! What has he been saying? ” 

“ Well, the worst thing was that we had some sort 
of a curse or something—he got us mixed up with 
another family who live down there in his town and 
they have deaf and dumb children and so-” 

“ Oh, Milly! Milly—you don’t mean-” An¬ 

gela’s voice cracked. “ Milly—does Mai know 
this? ” 

Milly’s round face was puzzled. “]No, I don’t 
suppose so, yet. The letter only came this morning 
on the second mail and Mother ran up to see me be¬ 
fore I left—that’s when she told me about it. It’s 
so ridiculous. Imagine my baby being deaf and 
dumb! There’s never been such a thing in our 

whole family history, the letter said. But-” 

she stopped abruptly, her mouth drooping and 
frightened. “Angela—what is it? What’s the 
matter? ” 

“ Oh, why didn’t we know? Why didn’t we? ” 
The tears that Angela had kept back all those 
months flooded her soft, frank eyes, ran down her 
pale cheeks. 

“Why—I thought you said you were happy,” 
Milly remonstrated. 

Angela laughed hysterically. “I am—I am! 

318 





EPILOGUE 


Terribly, terribly happy! Milly—Fm going to say 
good-bye. I’ve got to find a ’phone! ” 

At the corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-second 
Street Angela stood openly and joyously weeping, 
while she searched her bag for the five-cent piece 
that was to join her and Mai together for all time. 


THE END 


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